THE     QUEEN-MOTHER 


AND 


ROSAMOND. 


THE    QUEEN-MOTHER 


AND 


ROSAMOND. 


BY 


ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ATAL^NTA  IN  TALYDON." 
AND  "CHASTELARD.'' 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 
1866. 


SECOND     EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


AFFECTIONA  TEL  Y  INSCRIBED 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


2037391 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


Hugwnot  Nobles 


CHARLES  IX. 

HENRY,  King  of  Navarre, 

GASPARD  DE  SAULX,  Marshal  of  Tavannes, 

HENRY,  Duke  of  Guise, 

PIERRE  DE  BOURDEILLES,  Abbe"  de  Brantome, 

The  Admiral  COLIGNY, 

M.  DE  LA  NOUE, 

M.  DE  TELIGNY, 

M.  DE  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD, 

M.  DE  MARSILLAC, 

M.    DE   SOUBISE, 

M.  DE  PARDAILLAN,  j 

CINO  GALLI,  Jester  to  the  Queen-Mother. 

Two  Captains. 

CATHERINE  DE'  MEDICI,  Queen-Mother. 
MARGARET,  Queen  of  Navarre. 
CLAUDE,  Duchess  of  Lorraine. 
Duchess  of  Guise. 
DENISE  DE  MAULEVRIER, 
YOLANDE  DE  MoNTLITARD, 
ANNE  DE  SAULX, 
RENEE  DE  BARBEZIEUX, 


Catholic  Nobles. 


•  Maids  of  Honor. 


Soldiers,  People,  Attendants,  &*c.     Scene,  Paris, 
Time,  Aug.  22-24,  '572- 


THE    QUEEN-MOTHER. 

ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.    Environs  of  the  Louvre. 

Enter  MARSILLAC,  PARDAILLAN,  SOUBISE,  and  others,  masked; 
the  Duchess  of  GUISE,  and  other  Ladies. 

Marsillac. 
TV T  O,  not  the  king,  sir,  but  my  lord  of  Guise ; 

I  know  him  by  the  setting  of  his  neck, 
The  mask  is  wried  there. 

Par.  Are  not  you  the  queen  ? 

By  the  head's  turn  you  should  be  ;  your  hair  too 
Has  just  the  gold  stamp  of  a  crown  on  it 

Duch.  You  do  dispraise  her  by  your  scorn  of  me. 

Par.   Not  the  queen  ?  then  that  hair 's  real  gold  of  yours 
And  no  white  under  ? 

Sou.  Speak  low,  sirs  ;  the  king  — 

See  him  there,  down  between  the  two  big  stems, 
Wearing  a  rose,  some  damozel  with  him 
In  the  queen's  colors. 


lo  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Mar.  Ill  colors  those  to  wear ; 

I  doubt  some  loose  half  of  a  Florentine, 
Clipt  metal  too. 

Par.  Lower :  they  are  close  by  this  ; 

Make  space,  I  pray  you ;  Christ,  how  thick  they  get ! 

[  The  Courtiers  fall  back. 

Enter  the  King  and  DENISE  DE  MAULEVRIER. 

Ch.   Why  do  you  pluck  your  hands  away  from  me  ? 
Have  I  said  evil  ?  does  it  hurt  you  so 
To  let  one  love  you  ? 

Den..  Yea,  hurts  much,  my  lord. 

Ch.   Such  soft  small  hands  to  hide  in  mine  like  birds  — 
Poor  child,  she  pulls  so  hard  —  hush  now,  Denise, 
The  wrist  will  show  a  bruise,  I  doubt. 

Den.  My  wrist  ? 

This  is  a  knight,  a  man  gilt  head  and  feet,    • 
And  does  such  villanous  things  as  that ! 

Ch.  Yea  now, 

Will  you  not  weep  too  ?  will  you  cry  for  it  ? 
So,  there,  keep  quiet ;  let  one  loose  the  mask ; 
Show  me  the  rivet. 

Den.  No,  no,  not  the  mask ; 

I  pray  you,  sir  —  good  love,  let  be  the  clasp, 
I  will  not  show  you  —  ah  1 

Ch.  So,  so,  I  said 

This  was  my  lady,  this  one  ?  let  the  rest 
Go  chatter  like  sick  flies,  the  rest  of  them, 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  11 

I  have  my  gold-headed  sweet  bird  by  the  foot 
To  teach  it  words  and  feed  it  with  my  mouth. 
I  would  one  had  some  silk  to  tie  you  with 
Softer  than  a  man's  fingers  be. 

Den.  I  too  ; 

Your  finger  pinches  like  a  trap  that  shuts. 

Ch.   Come  then,  what  penance  do  you  think  to  get 
Now^  I  have  trapped  you  ?     No,  my  sweet  Denise, 
No  crying,  no  dear  tears  for  it :  no,  love, 
I  am  not  angry.     Why  did  you  break  from  me  ? 

Den.  Because  I  would  not  have  a  touch  of  you 
Upon  me  somewhere  ;  or  a  word  of  yours 
To  make  all  music  stupid  in  my  ear. 
The  least  kiss  ever  put  upon  your  lips 
Would  throw  me  this  side  heaven,  to  live  there.     What, 
Am  I  to  lose  my  better  place  i'  the  world, 
Be  stripped  out  of  my  girdled  maiden's  gown 
And  clad  loose  for  the  winter's  tooth  to  hurt, 
Because  the  man  's  a  king,  and  I  —  see  now, 
There  's  no  good  in  me,  I  have  no  wit  at  all ; 
I  pray  you  by  your  mother's  eyes,  my  lord, 
Forbear  me,  let  the  foolish  maiden  go 
That  will  not  love  you  ;  masterdom  of  us 
Gets  no  man  praise  :  we  are  so  more  than  poor, 
The  dear'st  of  all  our  spoil  would  profit  you 
Less  than  mere  losing ;  so  most  more  than  weak 
It  were  but  shame  for  one  to  smite  us,  who 
Could  but  weep  louder. 


12  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ch.  But  Denise,  poor  sweet, 

I  mean  you  hurt,  I  smite  you  ?  by  God's  head 
I  'd  give  you  half  my  blood  to  wash  your  feet. 

\Thtypeu9. 

Duck.   To  speak  truth,  I  'm  a  German  offset,  sir, 
And  no  high  woman  ;  I  was  born  in  Cleves, 
Where  half  the  blood  runs  thick. 

Par.  Ay,  with  your  tongue  and  head, 

Tell  me  of  German  !  your  silk  hair,  madam, 
Was  spun  in  Paris,  and  your  eyes  that  fill 
The  velvet  slit  i'  the  mask  like  two  fair  lamps, 
Set  to  shake  spare  gold  loose  about  the  dark  — 
Tell  me  of  German  ! 

Duck.  See  then  in  my  hands  ; 

You  have  good  skill  at  palm-reading,  my  lord  ? 

Par.   The  glove  smells  sweet  inside ;    that 's  good  to 
touch. 

Duck.   Give  me  my  glove  back. 

Par.  By  your  hand,  I  will  not 

Duch.   There  is  no  potency  of  oath  in  that ; 
My  hands  are  weak,  sir. 

Par.  By  your  eyes  then,  no. 

Duch.   I  pray  you,  for  your  courtesy,  sweet  lord, 
Leave  me  the  glove  yet. 

Par.  Bid  me  tear  it  first  • 

I  '11  wear  this  whether  iron  gird  or  silk, 
Let  snatch  at  it  who  will ;  and  whoso  doth, 
I  've  a  keen  tongue  ensheathed  to  answer  with. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  13 

Duck.   I  do  beseech  you,  not  my  glove,  fair  sir, 
For  your  dear  honor,  —  could  you  have  such  heart  ? 

Par.  Yea,  truly ;  do  but  see  me  fasten  it ; 
Nay,  it  drops  ;  help  me  to  set  in  the  wrist. 
The  queen  comes ;  I  shall  cross  her  sight  with  this  : 
If  you  be  woman,  as  you  said,  of  hers, 
It  will  make  sharp  the  inward  of  her  soul 
To  see  it. 

Enter  the  Queen-Mother,  GUISE,  and  Attendants  ;  CINO  GALLI, 
and  Ladies,  masked. 

Ca.  So,  Denise  is  caught  by  this ; 

Alack,  the  wolfs  paw  for  the  cat's,  fair  son  ! 
That  tall  knight  with  a  glove  wrought  curiously, 
Whose  friend,  think  you  ? 

Gut.  Some  lady's  here,  no  doubt ; 

Not  mine,  as  surely. 

Par.  Not  yours,  my  lord  of  Guise. 

Ca.  Your  wife's  glove,  is  it  ?  sewn  with  silk  throughout, 
And  some  gold  work,  too  :  her  glove,  certainly. 

Gui.  Take  no  note  of  him,  madam ;  let  us  go. 

[  They  pass. 

Par.  You  Catholics,  her  glove  inside  my  cap, 
Look  here,  I  tread  it  in  the  dirt :  you,  Guise, 
I  tread  a  token  under  foot  of  mine 
You  would  be  glad  to  wear  about  the  heart. 
Here,  madam,  have  it  back ;  soiled  in  the  seam 
Perhaps  a  little,  but  good  enough  to  wear 
For  any  Guise  I  see  yet. 


14  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Duck,  I  keep  it  for  him. 

[Exit  Duchess. 

Cino.   If  he  be  wise  I  am  no  fool.     One  of  you 
Bid  him  come  sup  with  me. 

Par.  What  fare,  good  fool  ? 

Cino.  A  sacrament  of  eye-water  and  rye-bread 
Changed  to  mere  foolish  flesh  and  blood  to  sup,  sir. 
-    Yolande.    'Ware  stakes,  my  Cino;  is  this  a  head  to 

roast  ? 

Think,  my  poor  fool's  tongue  with  a  nail  through  it, 
Were  it  no  pity  ? 

Cino.  Fire  goes  out  with  rain,  child. 

I  do  but  think,  too,  if  I  were  burnt  to-morrow, 
What  a  waste  of  salt  would  there  be  !  what  a  ruin  of  silk 

stuff! 

What  sweet  things  would  one  have  to  hear  of  me, 
Being  once  got  penitent !     Suppose  you  my  soul's  father, 
Here  I  come  weeping,  lame  in  the  feet,  mine  eyes  big  — 
"  Yea,  my  sin  merely !  be  it  not  writ  against  me 
How  the  very  Devil  in  the  shape  of  a  cloth-of-gold  skirt 
Lost  me  my  soul  with  a  mask,  a  most  ungracious  one, 
A  velvet  riddle  ;  and  how  he  set  a  mark  on  me, 
A  red  mark,  father,  here  where  the  halter  throttles, 
See  there,  Yolande  writ  broad  "  ;  yet,  for  all  that, 
The  queen  might  have  worn  worse  paint,  if  it  please  you 

note  me, 
If  her  physic-seller  had  kept  hands  cleaner,  verily. 

Vol.    Kind  Cino !  dost  not  look  to  be  kissed  for  this 
now? 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  15 

Cino.   Be  something  modest,  prithee  :  it  was  never  good 

time 

Since  the  red  ran  out  of  the  cheeks  into  the  lips. 
You  are  not  patient ;  to  see  how  a  good  man's  beard 
May  be  worn  out  among  you  ! 

Anne.  Virtuous  Cino ! 

Cino.   Tell  me  the  right  way  from  a  fool  to  a  woman, 
I  '11  tell  thee  why  I  eat  spiced  meat  on  Fridays. 

Vol.   As  many  feet  as  take  the  world  twice  round,  sweet, 
Ere  the  fool  come  to  the  woman. 

Cino.  I  am  mocked,  verily ; 

None  of  these  slippers  but  have  lightened  heels. 
I  '11  sit  in  a  hole  of  the  ground,  and  eat  rank  berries. 

Vol.   Why,  Cino  ? 

Cino.  Because  I  would  not  have  a  swine's  mouth 

And  eat  sweetmeats  as  ye  do.     It  is  a  wonder  in  heaven 
How  women  so  nice-lipped,  discreet  of  palate, 
Should  be  as  easy  for  a  thief  to  kiss 
As  for  a  king's  son  ;  like  the  common  grass 
That  lets  in  any  sun  or  rain,  and  wears 
All  favors  the  same  way  ;  it  is  a  perfect  wonder. 

Vol.   A  stole  for  Cino  ;  pray  for  me,  Fra  Cino. 

Cino.   Vex  me  not,  woman ;   I  renounce  the  works  of 

thee. 

I  '11  give  the  serpent  no  meat,  not  my  heel, 
To  sweeten  his  tooth  on.     I  marvel  how  your  mother 
Died  of  her  apple,  seeing  her  own  sense  was 
So  more  pernicious  ;  the  man  got  but  lean  parings, 


16  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  yet  they  hang  too  thick  for  him  to  swallow. 
Well,  for  some  three  or  four  poor  sakes  of  yours, 
I  '11  eat  no  honey. 

Anne.  Wherefore  no  honey,  Cino  ? 

One  saint  ate  honey  before  your  head  had  eyes  in  it. 

Cino.   I  would  not  think  of  kissing,  and  it  remembers 

me. 

Here  are  two  scraps  of  Venus'  nibbled  meat ; 
Keep  out  of  the  dish,  as  ye  respect  me,  children, 
Let  not  love  broil  you  on  a  gold  spit  for  Sundays. 

[  They  retire. 
Re-enter  the  King  and  DENISE. 

Ch.   Nay,  as  you  will  then. 

Den.  Not  for  love  indeed, 

Not  for  love  only,  but  your  own  fair  name, 
The  costliness  and  very  price  of  it, 
I  am  bold  to  talk  thus  with  you.     The  queen,  suspicious 
And  tempered  full  of  seasonable  fears, 
Does  partly  work  me  into  this  ;  truth  is  it, 
There 's  no  such  holy  secret  but  she  knows 
As  deep  therein  as  any ;  all  changes,  hopes, 
Wherewith  the  seed-time  of  this  year  goes  heavy, 
She  holds  and  governs  ;  and  me,  as  all  my  fellows, 
Has  she  fed  up  with  shreds  and  relics  thrown 
From  the  full  service  and  the  board  of  time 
Where  she  sits  guest,  and  sees  the  feast  borne  through  ; 
I  have  heard  her  say,  with  a  sigh  shaking  her, 
There 's  none  more  bound  to  pray  for  you  than  she, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  17 

And  her  you  love  not ;  and  how  sore  it  seems 
To  see  the  poisons  mingle  in  your  mouth, 
And  not  to  stay  them. 

Ck.  Will  she  say  that  indeed  ? 

Denise,  I  think  if  she  be  wise  and  kindly, 
And  mixed  of  mother's  very  milk  and  love, 
She  would  not  say  so. 

Den.  I  have  a  fear  in  me 

She  doubts  your  timely  speed  and  spur  of  blood  ; 
She  thinks,  being  young,  you  shall  but  tax  her  care 
And  liberal  grace  with  practice  and  weak  tricks  ; 
As  thus,  say,  you  conceive  of  me,  fair  lord, 
As  one  set  on  and  haled  by  golden  will 
(Such  lust  of  hire  as  many  souls  hath  burnt 
Who  wear  no  heat  outside)  to  do  you  wrong, 
To  scourge  and  sting  your  lesser  times  with  speech, 
Trailing  you  over  by  some  tender  lies 
On  the  queen's  party ;  which  God  doth  well  believe 
To  lie  as  far  from  me  as  snow  from  sun, 
Or  hence  to  the  round  sea. 

Ch.  There  's  no  trick  meant  me  ? 

Den.    I  pray,  sir,  think  if  I,  so  poor  in  wit 
The  times  rebuke  me,  and  myself  could  chide 
With  mine  own  heaviness  of  head,  be  fit 
To  carry  such  a  plot  and  spill  none  over 
To  show  the  water's  color  I  bear  with  me  ? 
All  I  lay  care  to  is  but  talk  of  love, 
And  put  love  from  me  I  am  emptier 


i8  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Than  vessels  broken  in  the  use  ;  I  am  sorry 

That  where  I  would  fain  show  some  good,  work  somehow 

To  suit  with  reason,  I  am  thrown  out  merely 

And  prove  no  help  ;  all  other  women's  praise 

Makes  part  up  of  my  blame,  and  things  of  least  account 

In  them  are  all  my  praises.     God  help  some  ! 

If  women  so  much  loving  were  kept  wise, 

It  were  a  world  to  live  in. 

Ch.  Poor  Denise, 

She  loves  not  then  so  wisely  ?  yea,  sweet  thing  ? 

Den.   Did  I  say  that  ?  nay,  by  God's  light,  my  lord, 
It  was  ill  jested  —  was  not  —  verily, 
I  see  not  whether  I  spake  truth  or  no. 

Ch.  Ay,  you  play  both  sides  on  me  ? 

Den.  It  may  prove  so. 

I  am  an  ill  player,  for  truly  between  times 
It  turns  my  heart  sick. 

Ch.  Fear  when  one  plays  false,  then. 

Den.  As  good  play  false  when  I  make  play  so  hardly. 
My  hand  is  hurt,  sir;  I  '11  no  more  with  you. 

Ch.  Will  you  so  cheat  me  ? 

Den.  Even  so  ;  God  quit  you,  sir ! 

But  pardon  me ;  and  yet  no  pardon,  for 
I  '11  have  no  stay  to  find  it :  were  pardon  at  my  feet, 
I  would  not  bow  to  gather  it.     Farewell. 

[Exit  DENISE. 

Ch.   Even  so  ?  but  I  '11  have  reason  ;  eh,  sweet  mouth  ? 
But  I  '11  have  reason  of  her,  my  Denise  ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  19 

How  such  can  love  one !  all  that  pains  to  talk  ! 
What  way  ran  out  that  rhyme  I  spun  for  her  ? 
To  do  just  good  to  me,  that  talk !  sweet  pains. 
Yea,  thus  it  fell :  Dieu  dit  —  yea,  so  it  fell. 

Dieu  dit ;  Choisis  ;  tu  dois  mourir ; 

Le  monde  vaut  bien  une  femme. 

L'amour  passe  et  fait  bien  souffrir. 

C'est  ce  que  Dieu  me  dit,  madame. 

Moi,  je  dis  a  Dieu  ;  Je  ne  veux, 

Mon  Dieu,  que  1'avoir  dans  ma  couche, 

La  baiser  dans  ses  beaux  cheveux, 

La  baiser  dans  sa  belle  bouche.          [Exit  the  King. 
Vol.   Now,  Cino  ? 

Cino.  I  am  considering  of  that  apple  still ; 

It  hangs  in  the  mouth  yet  sorely ;  I  would  fain  know  too 
Why  nettles  are  not  good  to  eat  raw.     Come,  children, 
Come,  my  sweet  scraps  ;  come,  painted  pieces  ;  come. 

Anne.    On  after  him  ;  he  is  lean  of  speech  and  moody ; 
Cunning  for  ill  words  at  such  winter-seasons 

That  come  i'  the  snow  like  bitter  berries.     On. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.    In  the  Louvre. 
Enter  King  HENRY  and  MARGARET. 

Mar.  Yea,  let  him  say  his  will. 
Hen.  I  will  not  bear  him. 

This  temperance  grows  half  shame. 

Mar.  I  doubt  God  hath 


20  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Fashioned  our  brother  of  like  earth  and  fire 
As  moulds  you  up  ;  be  patient ;  bear  with  him 
Some  inches  past  your  humor's  mark. 

Hen.  Bear  what  ? 

By  God  I  will  have  reason  :  tell  me  not ; 
I  love  you  with  the  soundest  nerve  i'  the  heart, 
The  cleanest  part  of  blood  in  it ;  but  him 
Even  to  the  sharpest  edge  and  tooth  of  hate 
That  blood  doth  war  upon. 

Mar.  Keep  in  this  chafe  ; 

Put  me  in  counsel  with  you. 

Hen.  It  is  no  matter. 

Mar.   I  never  saw  yet  how  you  love  and  hate. 
Are  you  turned  bitter  to  me  ?  all  old  words 
Buried  past  reach  for  grief  to  feed  upon 
As  on  dead  friends  ?  nay,  but  if  this  be,  too, 
Stand  you  my  friend ;  there  is  no  crown  i'  the  world 
So  good  as  patience  ;  neither  is  any  peace 
That  God  puts  in  our  lips  to  drink  as  wine, 
More  honey-pure,  more  worthy  love's  own  praise, 
Than  that  sweet-souled  endurance  which  makes  clean 
The  iron  hands  of  anger.     A  man  being  smitten 
That  washes  his  abuse'd  cheek  with  blood 
Purges  it  nothing,  gets  no  good  at  all, 
But  is  twice  punished,  and  his  insult  wears 
A  double  color ;  for  where  but  one  red  was 
Another  blots  it  over.     Such  mere  heat 
I'  the  brain  and  hand,  even  for  a  little  stain, 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  21 

A  summer  insolence  and  waspish  wound, 
Hurts  honor  to  the  heart,  and  makes  that  rent 
That  none  so  gracious  medicine  made  of  earth 
Can  heal  and  shut  like  patience.     The  gentle  God 
That  made  us  out  of  pain  endurable 
And  childbirth  comforts,  willed  but  mark  therein 
How  life,  being  perfect,  should  keep  even  hand 
Between  a  suffering  and  a  flattered  sense, 
Not  fail  for  either. 

Hen.  You  do  think  sweetly  of  him ; 

But  on  this  matter  I  could  preach  you  out. 
For  see,  God  made  us  weak  and  marred  with  shame 
Our  mixed  conception,  to  this  end  that  we 
Should  wear  remembrance  each  alike,  and  carry 
Strait  equal  raiment  of  humility ; 
Not  bare  base  cheeks  for  wrong  to  spit  across, 
Nor  vex  his  print  in  us  with  such  foul  colors 
As  would  make  bondsmen  blush. 

Mar.  Let  him  slip  wrong, 

So  you  do  reason  ;  if  such  a  half-king'd  man 
Turn  gross  or  wag  lewd  lips  at  you,  for  that 
Must  anger  strike  us  fool  ?    'T  is  not  the  stamp, 
The  purity  and  record  of  true  blood, 
That  makes  Christ  fair,  but  piteous  humbleness, 
Wherein  God  witnesses  for  him,  no  prince 
Except  a  peasant  and  so  poor  a  man 
God  gives  him  painful  bread,  and  for  all  wine 
Doth  feed  him  on  sharp  salt  of  simple  tears 
And  bitter  fast  of  blood. 


22  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Hen.  Yea,  well ;  yea,  well ; 

And  I  am  patient  with  you  Catholics  ; 
But  this  was  God's  sweet  son,  nothing  like  me, 
Who  have  to  get  my  right  and  wear  it  through 
Unhelped  of  justice  ;  all  do  me  wrong  but  I, 
And  right  I  '11  make  me. 

Mar.  But  all  this  wording-time 

I  am  not  perfect  where  this  wrong  began  ; 
Last  night  it  had  no  formal  face  to  show, 
That 's  now  full-featured. 

Hen.  Ah  !  no  matter,  sweet ; 

Nothing,  pure  naught. 

Mar.  Have  you  no  shame  then  current 

To  pay  this  anger  ?     Nay,  as  you  are  my  lord, 
I  '11  pluck  it  out  by  the  lips. 

Hen.  A  breath,  a  threat, 

A  gesture,  garment  pulled  this  way ;  nothing. 

Mar.  You  do  me  wrong,  sir,  wrong. 

Hen.  Well,  thus  then  it  fell  out ; 

By  God,  though,  when  I  turn  to  think  on  it, 
Shame  takes  me  by  the  throat  again  ;  well,  thus. 
King  Charles,  being  red  up  to  the  eyes  with  wine, 
In  the  queen's  garden,  meeting  me  —  as  chance 
Took  me  to  walk  six  paces  with  some  girl, 
Some  damozel  the  queen's  choice  dwells  upon, 
Strayed  somehow  from  the  broader  presence  — 

Mar.  Well  — 

Hen.   I  swear  to  you  by  faith  and  faith's  pure  lip 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  23 

That  I  know  —  that  I  did  not  hear  her  name 
Save  of  his  mouth. 

Mar.  I  did  not  ask  her  name. 

Hen.   Nor  do  I  well  remember  it ;  forgive, 
I  think  it  was  not  — 

Mar.  Pass. 

Hen.  Alys  de  Saulx  — 

Mar.   Marshal  Tavannes  has  no  such  name  akin. 

Hen.   There  's  Anne  de  Saulx  wears  longest  hair  of  all ; 
A  maid  with  gray  grave  eyes,  —  a  right  fair  thing ; 
Not  she,  I  doubt  me. 

Mar.  Worse  for  you,  my  lord. 

Hen.  Ay,  worse.     Diane  de  Villequier  is  tall  — 

Mar.   Are  we  at  riddles  ?  —  Agnes  de  Bacqueville  ? 

Hen.   Some  such  name,  surely ;  either  Chateauroux  — 

Mar.   Her  name  ?  as  I  am  wedded  woman,  sir, 
I  know  you  have  it  hidden  in  your  mouth 
Like  sugar  ;  tell  me  ;  take  it  on  the  lip. 

Hen.   There  was  a  D  in  it  that  kissed  an  M. 

Mar.   Denise  ?  a  white  long  woman  with  thick  hair, 
Gold,  where  the  sun  comes  ? 

Hen.  Ay,  to  the  ends  clean  gold. 

Mar.   Yea,  not  the  lightest  thing  she  has,  that  hair. 

Hen.  You  hold  for  true  — 

Mar.  We  have  time  to  come  for  her. 

Keep  in  your  story. 

Hen.  Naught,  mere  naught  to  tell : 

This  just ;  the  king  comes,  pulls  her  hand  from  mine  — 


24  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Mar.  Ah  !  no  more  shame  ? 

Hen.  No  more  in  him  than  that ; 

Plucked  her  as  hard  — 

Mar.  As  she  was  glad  to  go. 

Hen.   Not  so  ;  she  trembled  to  the  feet,  went  white, 
Spoke  hardly  — 

Mar:  Kept  one  hand  of  them  your  way  ? 

Hen.   Charles  caught  her  wrist  up,  muttered  next  her 

ear, 
Bade  me  leave  care  — 

Mar.  Nay,  here  's  more  fool  than  we. 

Enter  CINO. 

Cino.   The  world  was  a  wise  man  when  he  lived  by  bread 

only; 
There  be  sweet  tricks  now.    How  does  my  worthy  sister  ? 

Mar.   Not  so  much  ill  as  to  cease  thanks  for  it. 
How  does  thy  cap,  fool  ? 

Cino.  Warm,  I  thank  it,  warm ; 

I  need  not  wear  it  patched  as  much  as  faith. 
I  am  fallen  sick  of  heavy  head ;  sad,  sad ; 
I  am  as  sick  as  Lent. 

Mar.  Dull,  dull  as  dust ; 

Thou  hadst  some  nerve  i'  the  tongue. 

Cino.  Why,  I  am  old ; 

This  white  fool  three  days  older  in  my  beard 
Than  is  your  wedding.     But  be  not  you  cast  down  ; 
For  the  mere  sting  is  honorable  in  wedlock, 
And  the  gall  salve :  therefore  I  say,  praise  God. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  25 

Hen.  We  do  not  catch  thy  sense. 

Cino.  Let  my  sense  be  ; 

I  say  I  could  weep  off  mine  eye-cases, 
But  for  pity  of  some  ladies  who  would  run  mad  then. 
Do  not  you  meddle. 

Mar.  What  wisdom  mak'st  thou  here  ? 

Cino.   Why,  a  fool's  wisdom,  to  change  wit  with  blocks. 
You  were  late  railing ;  were  she  that  you  did  gibe 
Clean  as  her  mother  made,  I  tell  you  verily 
The  whitest  point  on  you  were  grime  and  soil 
To  her  fair  footsole. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  she 's  none  such. 

Cino.   I  care  not  what  she  be  ;  do  you  not  gibe, 
I  care  no  whit.     Let  her  take  twelve  or  six, 
And  waste  the  wicked'st  part  of  time  on  them, 
She  doth  outstand  you  by  ten  elbow-lengths. 

Hen.   Hath  love  not  played  the  knave  with  this  fool's 
eyes  ? 

Cino.   Let  that  lie  shut,  and  put  you  thumb  to  lip ; 
For  kings  are  bone  and  blood ;  put  flesh  to  that, 
You  have  the  rind  and  raiment  of  a  man. 
If  you  be  wise,  stay  wise,  even  for  my  sake ; 
Learn  to  lie  smooth,  be  piteous  and  abashed, 
And  though  dirt  fall  upon  your  faith  and  you 
Keep  your  ear  sober,  chide  not  with  its  news, 
And  use  endurance  well ;  so  shall  he  thrive, 
That  being  a  king  doth  crouch,  and  free  doth  wive. 
Farewell,  fair  king.  [Exit  CINO. 


26  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Hen.  This  fool  is  wried  with  wine. 

Mar.   French  air  hath  nipped  his  brains ;    what  ailed 

my  mother 
To  have  him  north  ? 

Hen.  You  bring  her  in  my  mind  ; 

Have  you  no  service  on  the  queen  to-day  ? 

Mar.    I  think  she  would  lie  privately  ;  she  said 
She  was  not  well. 

Hen.  I  pray  you  then  with  me. 

Mar.    I  will  not  with  my  lord  of  Pardaillan ; 
You  shall  not  break  me  with  the  king. 

Hen.  Men  say 

Guise  hath  some  angry  matter  made  with  him 
That  I  would  learn. 

Mar.  I  am  with  you  by  the  way ; 

I  have  some  tricks  to  tell  you  of  Denise.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.    A  Cabinet. 
The  Queen-Mother;  DENISE  dressing  her  hair ;  TAVANNES. 

Den.   Disait  amour,  voyant  rire  madame, 
Qui  me  baisait  dessous  mes  yeux  un  jour ; 
La  rose  est  plus  que  fleur  et  moins  que  femme, 

Disait  amour. 

Disait  amour ;  m'est  peine  dolose  en  ame  ; 
Dieu  veuille,  he*las  !  qu'elle  me  baise  un  jour. 
Ayez  merci,  car  je  souffre,  madame, 

Disait  amour. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  27 

Ca.   Set  the  gold  higher.     So,  my  lord  Tavannes, 
You  have  no  answer  of  the  king  ? 

Tav.  Not  I  ; 

The  Devil  would  give  over  such  hard  work, 
I  doubt,  as  you  put  me  to. 

Ca.  Ah  well,  well, 

I  thank  you  for  it.     Tie  the  next  more  loose, 
You  prick  my  forehead  through  the  hair,  Denise. 
Strange,  my  lord  marshal,  I  show  less  gray  spots 
Than  gold  thread  in  it,  surely.     Five  years  hence, 
These  girls  will  put  a  speckled  silver  on, 
Because  the  queen's  hair  turns  to  dust-color. 
Eh,  will  not  you,  Denise  ? 

Den.  If  I  wear  white, 

Gold  must  be  out  of  purchase  ;  I  '11  get  gold 
Or  wear  my  head  shorn  flat,  and  vex  no  combs. 

Ca.  You  put  sweet  powders  in  your  own  too  much  ; 
There,  stoop  down  —  you  may  kiss  me  if  you  will  — 
I  smell  the  spice  and  orris-root  in  it. 
Fie,  this  will  cheat  your  face,  my  poor  Denise  ; 
This  will  bleach  out  the  colors  of  your  blood, 
And  leave  the  hair  half  old.     See  you,  lord  marshal, 
This  girl's  was  never  soft  and  thick  like  mine  : 
Mine  was  so  good  to  feel  once,  I  know  well 
Kings  would  have  spent  their  lips  in  kissing  it. 

Tav.   I  have  poor  judgment  of  girls'  hair  and  cheeks  ;  • 
Most  women  doubtless  have  some  gold  and  red 
Somewhere  to  handle,  and  for  less  or  more 
I  care  not  greatly. 


28  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.  Yea,  I  do  well  think  once 

I  had  such  eyes  as  time  did  sleep  in  them, 
And  age  forbear  the  purple  at  their  lids  ; 
And  my  mouth's  curve  has  been  a  gracious  thing 
For  kisses  to  fall  near :  none  will  say  now 
That  this  was  once.     I  may  remember  me 
That  Scotswoman  did  fleer  at  my  gray  face  ; 
I  marvel  now  what  sort  of  hair  she  has. 

Den.   The  Queen  of  Scots  lived  gently  in  repute  ; 
She  has  much  wrong. 

Ca.  Put  not  your  judgment  to  't ; 

The  peril  that  enrings  her  place  about 
Is  her  own  whetting.     I  do  something  praise, 
Yet  hardly  from  the  outside  of  my  heart, 
Our  sister  England  ;  were  I  set  like  her, 
I  might  look  so. 

Tav.  Yea  so  ?  mere  heretic  ? 

Ca.   Beseech  you,  pardon  me  ;  I  am  all  shame 
That  I  so  far  misuse  your  holiness. 
I  know  as  you  are  sharp  in  continence 
So  are  you  hard  in  faith.     Mark  this,  Denise, 
These  swording-men  are  holier  things  than  we  ; 
These  would  put  no  kiss  on,  these  would  not  praise 
A  girl's  hair  — 

Tav.  Madam,  do  you  jape  at  me  ? 

•   Ca.   Scarce  let  the  wine  turn  in  their  veins  to  blood ; 
Strangle  the  knowledge  and  the  note  of  sense, 
Deny  that  worth ;  these  eat  no  grosser  meat 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  29 

Than  the  cleanest  water  we  dip  fingers  in ; 
Endure  beyond  the  very  touch  of  man, 
Have  none  so  soft  use  of  the  lip  as  makes  it 
Affect  the  natural  way.     Sir,  is  this  true  ? 

Tav.   Why,  if  men  said  you  had  more  teeth  than  hairs 
They  would  just  lie  ;  and  if  they  call  me  that 
They  lie  a  something  harder. 

Ca. '  Fie,  my  lord ! 

Your  good  wit  to  a  woman's  ?  will  you  say 
The  dog  licks  where  it  bit  you,  if  I  say 
Forgive,  Sir  Gaspard,  and  be  friends  with  me  ? 
Come,  if  I  make  you  sit  by  me,  fair  knight, 
And  say  the  king  had  never  half  the  wit 
To  choose  you  for  his  marshal  ?    Ten  years  back, 
And  may  be  clap  some  other  tens  on  that, 
I  mind  me  well,  sir,  how  you  came  up  here 
To  serve  at  Paris  ;  we  had  a  right  king  then, 
King  Francis,  with  his  close  black  beard  and  eyes 
Near  half  as  royal  as  your  own,  I  think. 
A  fair  page  were  you,  and  had  yellow  hair 
That  was  all  burnt  since  into  brown  ;  your  cheek 
Had  felt  no  weather  pinch  it  or  sun  bite, 
It  was  so  red  then:  but  you  fought  well,  sir, 
Always  fought  well ;  it  was  good  game  to  see 
Your  hand  that  swung  round,  getting  weight  to  throw, 
Feeling  for  room  to  strike  ;  Gaspard,  by  God 
I  would  have  paid  gold  coin  to  turn  a  man 
And  get  me  bone  to  handle  the  good  steel 


30  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  nerves  to  fight  with  ;  but  I  doubt  me,  soon 
I  should  have  had  the  dust  to  roll  into, 
Though  I  were  made  six  men  to  fight  with  you. 
Yet  my  arm  ached  for  want  of  spears  to  smite  — 
Eh  ?  when  you  ran  down  that  Montgommery 
That  slew  my  lord  with  his  side-prick  i'  the  eye  ? 
Yea  surely  ;  you  were  my  best  knight,  De  Saulx. 

Tav.   Madam  — 

Ca.  Nay,  Gaspard,  when  I  lie  of  you 

Then  let  your  bit  rasp  at  the  mouth  of  me  ; 
I  speak  poor  truth ;  why,  this  Denise  of  mine 
Would  give  time  up  and  turn  her  gold  hair  gray 
To  have  seen  out  the  season  we  two  saw. 

Den.   I  would  not ;  {aside  to  Catk.)  my  lord  marshal  is 

too  lean 
To  be  a  fair  man. 

Ca.  So,  your  glove  for  his  ? 

We  shall  have  larger  passages  of  war 
Except  I  look  to  it.     Pray  you,  Denise, 
Fetch  me  my  glove,  —  my  spice-box,  —  anything ; 
I  will  not  trust  you  with  my  lord  ;  make  in.  [Exit  DENISE. 
How  like  you  her  ? 

Tav.  A  costly  piece  of  white  ; 

Such  perfumed  heads  can  bear  no  weight  inside 
I  think,  with  all  that  waste  of  gold  to  bear 
Plaited  each  way ;  their  roots  do  choke  the  brain. 

Ca.   There  your  sense  errs  ;  though  she  be  tender-made, 
Yet  is  there  so  much  heart  in  her  as  could 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  31 

Wear  danger  out  of  patience.    It  is  my  son  I  fear 
Much  more  than  I  doubt  her :  the  king  my  son 
Flutters  not  overmuch  his  female  times 
With  love  enough  to  hurt,  but  turns  and  takes, 
Wears  and  lets  go  ;  yet  if  she  springe  him  once, 
Click,  quoth  the  gin  ;  and  there  we  trap  him.    See, 
This  medicine  I  make  out  for  him  is  sweet, 
More  soft  to  handle  than  a  poppy's  bud, 
And  pleasant  as  a  scented  mouth  to  kiss. 

Tav.   Yea,  I  do  see. 

Ca.  Now  at  this  turn  of  time 

He  is  not  perfect ;  and  I  have  a  mean 
To  bring  him  to  our  use.     My  lord  of  Guise  — 

Tav.   Doth  he  make  part  of  it  ? 

Ca.  Fear  you  not  him ; 

He  is  the  blazon  patched  upon  our  cloth 
To  keep  the  pattern's  gold.     For  the  king's  self, 
I  have  half  possessed  him  of  the  deeds  to  be, 
And  he  hath  nothing  blenched. 

Tav.  But,  to  this  girl  — 

What  way  serves  her  in  this  ? 

Ca.  Being  ignorant, 

She  does  the  better  work ;  for  her  own  sake 
Trails  him  my  way,  assures  herself  the  king 
Would  pluck  the  reddest  secret  from  his  heart 
To  show  her,  as  you  take  the  reddest  rose 
To  smell  at,  if  the  color  go  by  scent ; 
That 's  all  her  certainty.     What  foot  is  there  ? 


32  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Tav.   The  king,  and  hastily. 
Ca.  Keep  you  by  me ; 

I  know  his  cause.     Let  him  come  in. 

Enter  the  King. 

Ch.  Fair  mother, 

Good  morrow  come  upon  your  majesty. 

Ca.   The  morrow  grows  upon  good  night,  fair  son ; 
That  will  salute  me  soon  with  sleep  ;  you  see 
I  keep  not  well. 

Ch.  Ah,  pale  by  God  though,  pale  ! 

I  'm  sorry  —  sir,  good  morrow  —  hurt  at  heart. 
Hear  you  my  news  ?     The  admiral  is  hurt, 
Touched  in  the  side  —  I  lie  now,  not  the  side, 
But  his  arm  hurt  —  I  know  not  verily, 
But  he  is  some  way  wounded. 

Ca.  I  am  sorry 

No  goodness  walks  more  clear.     Sir,  think  you  not 
That  for  a  color  —  say  a  color,  now  — 

Ch.    I  doubt  you  do  not  mean  to  visit  him  ? 

Ca.   But  I  do  mean  ;  and  if  your  leave  hold  out 
We  '11  bid  the  Guise  with  us. 

Ch.  Have  your  best  way : 

Write  me  content  thereof. 

Ca.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Lord  marshal,  you  shall  pray  the  Guise  for  us. 

Tav.   Madam,  I  shall ;  God  keep  your  grace's  health. 

\Exeunt. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  33 

SCENE  IV.     The  Admiral's  House. 
Enter  COLIGNY  and  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

La  R.   How  do  you  yet,  sir  ? 

Co.  Ill,  yea,  very  ill : 

This  snake  has  pricked  me  to  the  heart,  to  the  quick, 
To  the  keenest  of  it ;  I  believe  heartily 
I  shall  not  live  to  foil  them.     God  mend  some  ! 
For  live  or  die,  and  wounded  flesh  or  whole, 
There  will  be  hard  things  done  ;  we  shall  not  see 
Much  more  fair  time. 

La  R.  Take  better  thoughts  to  you  ; 

The  king  is  steady ;  and  the  Guise  wears  eyes 
Of  such  green  anger  and  suspicious  light 
As  cows  his  followers  ;  even  the  queen-mother 
Walks  slower  than  her  wont,  with  mouth  drawn  up, 
And  pinches  whiter  her  thin  face  ;  Tavannes 
Goes  chewing  either  lip's  hair  with  his  teeth, 
Churning  his  bearded  spite,  and  wears  the  red 
Set  on  his  cheek  more  steady ;  the  whole  court 
Flutters  like  birds  before  the  rain  begin  ; 
Salcede,  who  hates  no  place  in  hell  so  much 
As  he  loathes  Guise,  lets  out  his  spleen  at  him 
And  wags  his  head  more  than  its  use  was  ;  yea, 
The  main  set  draws  our  way  now  the  steel  bit 
Keeps  hard  inside  their  mouths  :  yea,  they  pull  straight. 

Co.  You  lay  too  much  upon  them. 

La  R.  Not  a  whit  over : 


34  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

They  are  good  men  our  side  ;  no  dog  laps  i'  the  trough 

So  deep  as  we  do ;  the  best  men  we  have 

That  France  has  for  us,  the  best  mouths  for  a  hunt, 

To  wind  the  quarry  furthest ;  then  to  these 

A  clean  cause,  friends  with  iron  on  the  hand, 

The  king  to  head,  no  less. 

Co.  The  king,  no  less  ? 

Yea,  there  's  a  dog  gives  tongue,  and  tongue  enough, 
Too  hot  I  doubt,  too  hot ;  strikes  by  the  scent. 

La  R.   Will  you  think  so  ?  why,  there  be  dog-leashes  ; 
Pluck  hard,  you  hold  him.     Come,  I  note  you  though  ; 
None  sticks  in  your  throat  but  Venus  the  old  brach. 

Co.  True,  there  she  sticks,  sir ;  for  your  burden  saith  — 
"Brach's  feet  and  witch's  nose 
Breathe  which  way  the  quarry  blows." 

La  R.   She  's  old,  sir,  old ;  the  teeth  drop,  the  smell 

wears ; 
No  breath  in  her  by  this. 

Co.  Enough  to  breathe 

The  best  of  you  that  snuff  about  and  yelp. 
Who  stops  there  in  the  street  ?  look  out. 

La  R.  The  king ! 

So,  get  you  ready ;  Catherine  here  and  all, 
God  save  my  wits  a  taking !  here  you  have  them. 

Enter  the  King,  Queen-Mother,  GUISE,  and  Attendants. 

Ch.   Do  not  rise  up,  sir ;  pray  you  keep  your  place  ; 
Nay  now,  by  God's  face,  look,  the  cloak  slips  off; 
Nay,  be  more  patient. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  35 

Co.  Dear  and  gracious  lord, 

If  you  be  pleased  to  look  on  my  disease 
As  not  my  will,  but  a  constraint  to  me 
Less  native  than  my  garments,  I  have  hope 
You  may  forgive  it. 

Ch.  Yea,  we  do,  we  do. 

Ca.   It  was  not,  sir,  your  sickness  we  took  pains 
To  come  and  visit ;  what 's  no  friend  of  yours 
Is  even  as  our  own  felt  infirmity, 
And  should  be  held  so. 

Ch.  True,  sir,  by  God  it  should. 

Ca.  We  therefore  pray  you  have  no  care  of  that, 
But  as  we  do,  respect  it. 

Ch.  Do  not,  sir. 

Co.   Madam,  a  sick  man  has  not  breath  or  tongue 
To  answer  salutation  of  such  worth  ; 

But  even  the  very  blood  that  pain  makes  war  on 

It 
Is  healed  and  sound  by  this.     From  stronger  heart 

Than  ere  I  saw  you  was  in  me,  now  touched 
And  comforted  by  favor,  I  pay  thanks 
The  best  I  have  ;  and  none  so  poor  man  pays 
A  rent  of  words  more  costly. 

Ca.  My  fair  lord, 

This  compliment  has  relish  of  more  health 
Than  was  believed  in  you  ;  I  am  most  glad 
That  footless  rumor  which  makes  wing  to  go 
Reports  you  something  lesser  than  you  seem  ; 
So  making  keener  with  new  spice  to  it 


36  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Our  very  edge  of  pleasure,  the  fine  taste 

That  waits  on  sudden  sweetness.     Sir,  nathless, 

No  compliment  it  was  we  came  to  beg, 

No  alms  of  language  and  frayed  garb  o'  the  court 

That  makes  no  wear  for  men ;  but  to  do  grace  indeed 

Rather  to  us  than  you,  whose  worth  no  friend 

Can  top  with  favor. 

Co.  It  shows  the  more  love  in  you. 

Ca.   Also,  my  lord,  for  such  poor  part  as  mine, 
I  pray  you  be  not  jealous  to  receive 
Assurance  of  me  with  how  sore  a  hurt 
111  news  of  you  made  passage  most  unkind 
Into  my  knowledge  ;  and  with  how  dear  a  price 
I  would  have  bought  a  chance  to  succor  you 
Whose  wound  was  sickness  to  me.    So  God  love  my  son, 
As  I  have  put  my  prayer  for  your  good  hap 
Between  two  tears  before  him  ;  yea,  never  shall  he 
Get  worship  of  me  but  I'll  speak  of  you 
As  the  leader  of  my  loves,  the  captain  friend 
Among  my  nearest.     Sir,  the  king  knows  well 
How  I  speak  of  you  ;  see  now,  let  him  say 
Whether  I  lie  or  no  in  loving  you. 

Ch.  Ay,  sir,  there  's  no  such  day  or  night-season 
But  she  holds  to  you,  none  but  the  admiral, 
That  good  lord,  that  best  counsellor,  strong  ward 
For  any  king  to  hang  by ;  time  has  been,  sir, 
I  have  turned  sick  of  hearing  your  grave  name 
So  paddled  over,  handled  so ;  my  lord, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  37 

There  's  no  man,  none  in  the  world,  my  mother  mates  with 

you 
Save  two,  that 's  I  and  God. 

Gut.  And  that 's  a  courtesy. 

Co.    My  lord  of  Guise,  I  saw  you  not ;  this  day, 
As  men  do  shut  the  edges  of  a  wound, 
Shuts  the  loud  lips  of  our  contention ;  sir, 
This  grace  you  do  me  shall  keep  fast  my  thanks 
To  your  name  always. 

Gui.  It  is  the  king's  good  will 

I  should  be  made  the  servant  to  his  act; 
And  what  grace  pleases  him  to  bring  me  to 
I  take  as  title  to  me  ;  thjs  not  least, 
To  call  my  poor  name  a  friend's  name  of  yours. 

Co.   That  makes  mine  honor. 

Ch.  It  was  this  we  came 

To  see  made  well  up  from  the  Guise  to  you ; 
My  thought  was  ever  there,  yea,  nailed  to  it, 
Fastened  upon  it ;  it  was  my  meat  and  sleep, 
Prayer  at  feast-season  and  my  fast  at  noon, 
To  get  this  over. 

Co.  It  is  well  set  now. 

This  hand  is  hurt  I  lay  into  your  hand, 
But  the  love  whole  and  the  good  will  as  sound 
As  shall  the  peace  be  for  us. 

Gut.  I  take  it  so ; 

Maimed  be  that  hand  which  first  shall  loosen  it, 
Even  beyond  healing. 


38  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Co.  Pardon,  my  fair  lord, 

I  am  but  old,  you  strain  my  wrist  too  much. 

Ch.   Nay,  you  are  worse  hurt  than  they  told  us,  then ; 
I  pray  you  show  me  but  the  coat,  I  would 
Fain  see  the  coat  where  blood  must  stick  of  yours. 

Co.   Sir,  there  it  is. 

Ch.  Ay,  no  more  red  than  this  ? 

I  thank  you  ;  was  it  this  way  the  slit  came  ? 
Yea,  so,  I  see ;  yea,  sideways  in  the  sleeve. 
Is  that  the  admiral's  blood  indeed  ?     Methinks, 
Being  issued  from  so  famous  veins  as  yours, 
This  should  be  redder.     See,  well  above  the  wrist ; 
See,  madam ;  yea,  meseems  I  smell  the  stain. 

Ca.   It  is  an  ill  sight. 

Co.  I  would  give  better,  sir, 

Spill  the  red  residue  some  worthier  way, 
If  you  would  heed  me.     Trust  not  each  in  all, 
Nor  sew  your  faith  too  thinly  to  men's  sleeves  ; 
There  is  a  poisonous  faith  that  eats  right  out 
The  sober  and  sweet  heart  of  clean  allegiance, 
Leaving  for  witness  of  all  royalty 
Merely  the  baser  flesh ;  beware  of  that. 

Ch.   I  will.  —  Is  not  this  like  men's  blood  ?  —  I  will. 
Most  like  a  common  fool's ;  see  you,  lord  Guise, 
Here 's  a  great  soldier  has  no  blood  more  worth 
Than  yours  or  mine.     By  God,  how  strange  is  that, 
It  makes  me  marvel.     Is  your  wound  near  well  ? 
Tush  !  no  more  hurt  than  shall  a  month  see  out. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  39 

Ca.  You  have  poor  sense  of  sickness  ;  I  fear  much 
Our  friend  shall  hardly  feed  on  the  larger  air 
This  two  months  hence.     You  must  keep  close,  dear  lord, 
Hide  from  the  insolent  and  eager  time  ; 
And  we  not  wrong  you  by  the  overstay        * 
Of  foolish  friendship,  thankworthy  in  this, 
That  it  knows  when  to  cease,  what  limit  made 
To  measure  its  observance  by.     Farewell ; 
Think  not  worse  of  us  that  we  trouble  you, 
But  know  we  love  you  even  too  well  to  buy 
Our  further  speech  with  danger  of  your  hurt, 
And  had  we  sounder  witness  of  our  love 
Would  better  prove  it.     Sir,  God  keep  you  well 
And  give  us  joy  to  see  you. 

Ch.  Farewell,  dear  father  ; 

Doubt  not  but  we  will  lay  a  present  hand 
On  one  that  hath  so  stricken  us  in  you, 
And  he  shall  find  us  sharp.     In  trust  of  that 
Keep  some  thought  of  this  poorest  friend  you  have, 
As  we  of  you  shall.     Trouble  not  yourself. 
Nay,  have  your  cloak  on  ;  so ;  God  give  you  help. 
Come  with  me,  my  lord  Guise  ;  fair  sir,  good  night. 
Yea,  night  it  is  now  ;  God  send  you  good  time  of  it. 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen-Mother,  GUISE,  &*c. 

Co.     Good  thanks,  sir,  and  farewell.  —  So :    gone,   I 
think  ? 

La  R.  Fair  words  go  with  them !  you  have  good  time 
indeed ; 


40  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

What  holidays  of  honey  have  they  kept, 
What  a  gold  season  of  sentences  to  warm  by, 
Even  past  all  summer  !  a  sweet  oil-season, 
Kept  ripe  with  periods  of  late  wine  to  finish  it ! 

Co.   Ay,  the  taste  of  them  makes  a  bitter  lip,  sir. 

La  R.   Nay,  mere  feast-honey ;  did  you  mark  the  Guise 

once, 

How  his  chin  twisted  and  got  rough  with  smiles, 
Like  a  new  cloth  rained  on  ?     How  the  nose  was  wried  of 

him, 

What  widow's  cheeks  he  had,  never  well  dried  yet  ? 
The  sweet  speech  clung  in  his  throat  like  a  kernel  swal- 
lowed 
In  sucking  cherries. 

Co.  You  are  too  loud  yet,  too  splenetive. 

La  R.  Tush  !  they  are  well  gone,  no  fear  of  them  ;  but 

verily 

I  doubt  you  saw  not  how  like  a  dog's  his  face  was, 
A  dog's  you  catch  with  meat  in  his  teeth  ;  by  Christ, 
I  thought  he  would  have  cried  or  cursed  outright, 
His  mouth  so  wrought. 

Co.  Yea,  either  had  done  well. 

La  R.   A  dog  that  snarls  and  shivers  with  back  down, 
With  fearful  slaver  about  his  mouth  ;  "  weh,  weh, 
For  God's  sake  do  not  beat  me,  sirs  ! "  eh,  Guise  ?  — 
With  timid  foam  between  his  teeth  ;  poor  beast,  too, 
I  could  be  sorry  for  him. 

Co.  Be  wise  in  time,  sir, 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  41 

And  save  your  tears  ;  this  Guise  has  scope  to  mend, 
Get  past  these  matters ;  I  not  doubt  the  queen 
Touches  them  with  a  finger-point  of  hers. 

La  R.  The  queen  gets  kind  ;  she  lessens  and  goes  out ; 
No  woman  holds  a  snake  at  breast  so  long, 
But  it  must  push  its  head  between  the  plaits 
And  show  across  her  throat's  gold  work.     Fair  sir, 
Cure  but  your  doubt,  your  blood  is  whole  again 
And  pain  washed  out  at  once ;  it  is  the  fret  of  that 
Which  fevers  you  so  far. 

Co.  This  is  not  so. 

I  pray  you  mark :  their  fires  are  lit  next  room, 
The  smoke  bites  in  our  eyelids,  air  turns  weak 
And  body  trembles  and  breath  sickens  here. 
Sir,  I  do  know  this  danger  to  the  heart, 
To  the  shape  and  bone  of  it,  the  mouth  and  eyes, 
The  place  and  time,  season  and  consequence  ; 
By  God's  head,  sir,  now,  this  mere  now,  this  day, 
The  peril  ripens  like  a  wound  o'  the  flesh 
That  gathers  poison  ;  and  we  sleepy  things 
Let  crawl  up  to  our  feet  the  heats  that  will 
Turn  fire  to  burn. 

La  R.  Your  wisdom  is  too  loud  : 

Doth  it  fear  truly  some  court-card,  some  trick 
That  throws  out  honor  ? 

Co.  Yea ;  for  note  me  this, 

These  men  so  wholly  hate  us  and  so  well 
It  would  be  honey  to  their  lips,  I  think, 


42  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

To  have  our  death  for  the  familiar  word 
They  chatter  between  mass-time  and  the  bed 
Wet  with  wine,  scented  with  a  harlot's  hair, 
They  lie  so  smooth  in.     When  one  hates  like  that, 
So  many  of  them,  each  a  hand  and  mouth 
To  stab  and  lie  and  pray  and  poison  with, 
The  bloodsmell  quickens  in  the  head,  the  scent 
Feels  gross  upon  the  trail,  and  the  steam  turns 
Thicker  i'  the  noses  of  the  crew ;  right  soon 
Shall  their  feet  smoke  in  the  red  pasturing-place 
And  tongues  lap  hot ;  such  cannot  eat  mere  grass 
Nor  will  drink  water. 

La  R.  Are  we  stalled  for  them  ? 

Are  we  their  sheep  ?  have  we  no  steel  ?  dumb  sheep  ? 

Co.   No  steel ;  the  most  of  us  have  watered  blood, 
Their  nerves  are  threads  of  silk,  their  talk  such  cries 
As  babies  babble  through  the  suckling  milk, 
Put  them  by  these. 

La  R.  I  have  a  way  to  help ; 

A  damsel  of  the  queen-mother's  loves  me 
More  than  her  mistress ;  she  has  eyes  to  kiss 
That  can  see  well ;  I  '11  get  us  help  of  her. 

Co.   Tell  her  no  word. 

La  R.  Yea,  many  words,  I  think. 

Co.   No  word,  sir,  none. 

La  R.  This  riddle  sticks,  my  lord. 

Co.   To  say  we  stand  in  fear  is  perilous  prate ; 
To  kneel  for  help  would  maim  us  in  the  feet, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  43 

So  could  we  neither  stand  in  time  nor  fly, 

Being  caught  both  ways.     Do  not  you  speak  with  her. 

La  R.   I  '11  make  help  somehow  yet ;  Yolande  is  good 
And  would  not  hurt  us  ;  a  fair  mouth  too  small 
To  let  lies  in  and  learn  broad  tricks  of  speech  ; 
I  '11  get  help,  surely.     Does  not  your  wound  hurt  ? 

Co.   Not  much  ;  I  pray  you  draw  my  cloak  across  ; 
So  ;  the  air  chafes. 

La  R.  Go  in  and  rest  some  while  ; 

Your  blood  is  hot  even  to  the  fingers. 

Co.  True ; 

I  shall  sleep  ill.    Come  in  with  me,  fair  lord. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.     The  Louvre. 
Enter  King  and  DENISE. 

Denise. 
"\T  AY,  I  shall  know  it. 

Ch.  Tush  !  you  trouble  me. 

Den.   O  ay,  I  trouble  you,  my  love  's  a  thorn 
To  prick  the  patience  of  your  flesh  away 
And  maim  your  silenced  periods  of  whole  sleep. 
I  will  unlearn  that  love  ;  yea,  presently. 
Ch.  What  need  I  tell  you  ? 
Den.  Trouble  not  your  lip ; 


44  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  have  no  ear  to  carry  the  large  news 

That  you  shut  up  inside.     Nay,  go  ;  nay,  go  ; 

It  is  mere  pain,  not  love,  that  makes  me  dull ; 

Count  not  on  love  ;  be  not  assured  of  me ; 

Trust  not  a  corner  of  the  dangerous  air 

With  some  lean  alms  of  speech  ;  I  may  deceive  you, 

I  may  wear  wicked  color  in  the  soul 

When  the  cheek  keeps  up  red.     Perchance  I  lie. 

Ch.   Thou  art  the  prettiest  wonder  of  God's  craft ; 
I  think  thy  mother  made  thee  out  of  milk, 
Thy  talk  is  such  a  maiden  yet.     Stay  there,  — 
Are  hands  too  costly  for  my  fingering  ?  ha  ? 

Den.   Now  I  could  kill  you  here  between  the  eyes, 
Plant  the  steel's  bare  chill  where  I  set  my  mouth, 
Or  prick  you  somewhere  under  the  left  side  ; 
Why,  thou  man's  face  of  cunning,  thou  live  doubt, 
Thou  mere  suspicion  walking  with  man's  feet ! 
Yea,  I  could  search  thy  veins  about  with  steel 
Till  in  no  corner  of  thy  crannied  blood 
Were  left  to  run  red  witness  of  a  man, 
No  breath  to  test  thee  kinglier  than  dead  flesh, 
Sooner  than  lose  this  face  to  touch,  this  hair 
To  twist  new  curls  in ;  yea,  prove  me  verily, 
Sift  passion  pure  to  the  blind  edge  of  pain, 
And  see  if  I  will  —  yet  what  need,  what  need  ? 
Kiss  me  !  there  now,  am  I  no  queen  for  you  ? 
Here,  take  my  fingers  to  mould  flat  in  yours 
That  would  mould  iron  flat,  —  eh,  would  not  they  ? 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  45 

Ch.  Ay,  true,  Denise,  by  God  they  can  turn  steel, 
That 's  truth  now,  —  turn  it  like  a  bit  of  paste 
Paddled  each  way,  —  that 's  just  short  truth. 

Den.  Well,  now, 

That  I  do  pray  you  put  some  trust  on  me 
For  love's  fair  merit  and  faith's  noble  sake, 
What  holds  your  lips  so  fast  ?     I  should  look  proud, 
Grave  in  the"  mouth,  with  wise  accomplice  eyes, 
A  piece  of  your  great  craft.     Make  place  for  me  ; 
I  pray  you,  place. 

Ch.  This  counsel  is  more  grave 

Than  death's  lean  face  ;  best  your  ear  touch  it  not. 

Den.    Nay  then  I  will  not ;  for  I  would  not  pluck 
So  rough  a  knowledge  on.     I  am  a  child, 
A  show,  a  bauble  kissed  and  laughed  across  ; 
You  lay  your  face  over  my  head  and  laugh, 
Your  slow  laugh  underbreath  runs  in  my  hair. 
Talk  me  of  love,  now ;  there  I  understand, 
Catch  comprehension  at  the  skirt  of  love, 
Steal  alms  of  it.     Yet  I  would  put  love  off 
And  rather  make  the  time  hard  cover  to  me 
Than  miss  trust  utterly.     But  let  that  lie  ; 
Therein  walks  danger  with  both  eyes  awake, 
Therefore  no  more.     Tell  me  not  anything. 

Ch.  Thou  shalt  have  all. 

Den.  Must  I  put  violence 

To  war  upon  my  words  ?     Have  they  said  wrong  ? 
I  was  resolved  not  to  distemper  you. 


46  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER, 

Ch.   Nay,  I  shall  try  your  trust.     Sit  by  me,  so  ; 
Lay  your  hands  thus.     By  God  how  fair  you  are, 
It  does  amaze  me  ;  surely  God  felt  glad 
The  day  he  finished  making  you.     Eh,  sweet, 
You  have  the  eyes  men  choose  to  paint,  you  know  ; 
And  just  that  soft  turn  in  the  little  throat 
And  bluish  color  in  the  lower  lid 
They  make  saints  with. 

Den.  True.     A  grave  thing  to  hear. 

Ch.   See  yet,  this  matter  you  do  fret  me  with 
Seems  no  whit  necessary,  nor  hath  such  weight, 
Nor  half  the  cost  and  value  of  a  hair, 
Poised  with  some  perfect  little  wrath  of  yours 
In  fret  of  brows  or  lifting  of  the  lip. 
Indeed  you  are  too  precious  for  man's  use, 
Being  past  so  far  his  extreme  point  of  price, 
His  flawed  and  curious  estimation, 
As  throws  out  all  repute  of  words. 

Den.  I  would 

My  face  were  writhen  like  a  witch !     Make  forth. 

Ch.  Why,  many  a  business  feeds  on  blood  i'  the  world, 
And  there  goes  many  a  knave  to  make  a  saint  — 

Den.   I  shall  be  angry.    Sir,  I  am  no  fool, 
But  you  do  treat  me  as  a  dog  might  fare 
Coming  too  near  the  fire. 

Ch.  Nay,  keep  dry  lids  ; 

I  would  not  lose  you  for  three  days,  to  have 
My  place  assured  next  God's.     But  see  you  now, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  47 

This  gracious  town  with  its  smooth  ways  and  walls 
And  men  all  mine  in  all  of  theirs  — 

Den.  I  see. 

Ck.   This  France  I  have  in  fee  as  sure  as  God 
Hath  me  and  you,  —  if  this  should  fall  to  loss, 
Were  it  no  pity  ? 

Den.  Yea,  sir,  it  were  much. 

Ch.   Or  now,  this  gold  that  makes  me  up  a  king, 
This  apprehensive  note  and  mark  of  time, 
This  token'd  kingdom,  this  well-tested  worth, 
Wherein  my  brows  exult  and  are  begirt 
With  the  brave  sum  and  sense  of  kingliness, 
To  have  this  melted  from  a  narrow  head 
Or  broken  on  the  bare  disfeatured  brows, 
And  marred  i'  the  very  figure  and  fair  place 
Where  it  looked  nobly,  —  were  this  no  shame  to  us  ? 

Den.   Yea,  this  were  piteous  likewise. 

Ch.  Think  on  it. 

For  I  would  have  you  pitiful  as  tears, 
Would  have  you  fill  with  pity  as  the  moon 
With  perfect  round  of  seasonable  gold 
Fills  her  starved  sides  at  point  of  the  yellow  month  ; 
For  if  you  leave  some  foolish  part,  some  break, 
Some  idle  piece  or  angle  of  yourself, 
Not  filled  with  wise  and  fearful  pity  up, 
Th.en  shame  to  hear  the  means  of  mine  effect 
Shall  change  you  stone  for  good. 

Den.  I  apprehend. 


48  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ch.    For  I,  by  God,  when  I  turn  thought  on  it, 
Do  feel  a  heavy  trembling  in  my  sense, 
An  alteration  and  a  full  disease 
As  perilous  things  did  jar  in  me  and  make 
Contention  in  my  blood. 

Den.  Nay,  but  speak  more  ; 

Speak  forth.     Good  love,  if  I  should  flatter  you  — 

Ch.  You  see  how  hard  and  to  what  sharp  revolt 
The  labor  of  the  barren  times  is  grown 
Not  in  France  merely,  but  in  either  land 
That  feels  the  sea's  salt  insolence  on  it ; 
The  womb  is  split  and  shaken  everywhere 
That  earth  gets  life  of;  and  the  taint  therein 
Doth  like  a  venomous  drug  incite  and  sting 
The  sore  unhealed  rebellion  in  its  house 
To  extreme  working.     Now  to  supplant  this  evil 
Doth  ask  more  evil ;  men  kiss  not  snakes  to  death, 
Nor  have  we  heard  of  bodies  plagued  to  ache 
Made  whole  with  eating  honey.     It  is  most  good 
That  we  should  see  how  God  doth  physic  time 
Even  to  the  quick  and  the  afflictive  blood 
With  stripes  as  keen  as  iron  in  the  flesh. 
Therefore,  —  That  is,  you  have  to  apprehend 
I  mean  no  evil,  but  a  righteous  help  ; 
I  hate  blood,  too ;  indeed  I  love  it  not 
More  than  a  girl  does.     Therefore  it  is  hard. 
Take  note  of  me,  I  tell  you  it  is  hard. 

Den.   I  see.    Make  on. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  49 

Ch.  It  was  to  bring  all  right,  — 

And  these  men  break  God's  smooth  endurance  up, 
And  he  must  hate  them ;  and  I  love  him  so, 
I  and  all  friends,  my  mother  here  and  all, 
It  hurts  us,  doth  us  wrong,  puts  pain  on  us, 
When  God  forbears  his  causa  to  quit  himself, 
And  gives  no  sign  aside. 

Den.  I  may  well  think 

These  are  your  Huguenots  that  you  do  loathe ; 
You  will  do  right  upon  them,  will  you  not  ? 

Ch.   Ay,  right,  I  will  do  right,  nothing  but  right. 
You  are  my  absolute  mistress  and  my  choice, 
The  top  and  pearl  of  all  mine  ornament, 
The  golden  and  refined  election 
Of  all  the  treasures  I  set  hands  to  ;  well, 
I  do  believe  were  you  so  mixed  herein 
As  many  are,  many  that  I  keep  dear, 
Dear  and  right  precious  in  my  just  account, 
And  I  had  such  a  promise  in  God's  ear 
As  I  have  now  to  see  an  end  of  these, 
I  might  renounce  you  too  and  give  him  leave 
To  make  you  parcel  of  the  execution 
That  shall  be  done  on  these. 

Den.  I  fear  you  much ; 

For  I  can  smell  the  mother  in  your  speech, 
This  argument  hath  color  of  her  eyes  ; 
Where  learnt  you  it  ? 

Ch.  My  brains  do  beat  upon 


50  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

The  month's  full  time.     Which  day  it  is  I  know  not ; 

It  should  look  red  upon  the  calendar, 

And    outblush    its  fierce  use.     The    twenty-fourth    ot 

August,  — 

We  stumble  near  it  unawares  by  this  ; 
Give  me  the  book. 

Den.  What  are  you  strayed  upon  ? 

Ck.   It  is  the  time,  the  time,  —  you  come  too  late 
To  tear  its  thread  across. 

Den.  Pray  you,  what  time  ? 

Ch.   But  this  Bartholomew  shall  be  inscribed 
Beyond  the  first ;  the  latter  speech  of  time 
Shall  quench  and  make  oblivious  war  upon 
The  former  and  defeated  memories, 
New  histories  teaching  it.     For  there  will  be 
Blood  on  the  moist  untimely  lip  of  death, 
And  in  the  dusty  hunger  of  his  bones 
A  sudden  marrow  shall  refresh  itself 
And  spread  to  perfect  sinew.     There  will  stir 
Even  in  the  red  and  hollow  heat  of  hell 
A  motion  of  sharp  spirit,  a  quickened  sense 
Such  as  wine  makes  in  us  ;  yea,  such  a  day 
God  hath  not  seen  as  I  shall  make  for  him. 

Den.   You  put  fear  in  me  ;  I  can  feel  my  blood 
Go  white  with  hearing  you. 

Ch.  We  trap  them  all 

In  a  great  gin  where  the  soul  sticks  as  well. 
Nay,  there  's  no  hair  of  any  Huguenot 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  51 

But  makes  up  parcel  of  my  work  in  blood, 

Nor  face  that  is  not  painted  with  our  swords. 

(I  told  you  this  should  hurt.)    O,  I  could  be 

Most  glad  that  I  am  taken  to  do  this 

And  show  the  eyes  of  this  lean  world  and  time 

The  mould  and  the  strong  model  of  a  king, 

Not  in  the  halting  likeness  of  an  ape 

That  fingers  precious  ware  and  knows  it  not, 

From  the  teeth  outward  fool.     Look  you,  I  '11  do  't ; 

Nay,  as  God  stands  beyond  us  twain,  I  will. 

First  Paris,  —  note  you,  Paris  helps  in  it, 

I  stand  not  singly  nerved,  but  in  mine  arm 

Have  multiplied  the  sinew  of  all  these  ; 

France  helps  in  it :  the  Guise  has  word  to  go 

And  take  our  admiral's  patience  by  the  throat 

And  finish  the  half  issue  of  his  blood ; 

See,  this  side  goes  Tavannes  ;  here  ride  our  men, 

And  here  ;  no  falcon  starved  to  bones  and  beak 

Is  tempered  keener  than  our  citizen 

Den.  You  will  not  murder  them  ? 

Ch.  Ay,  will  I  not  ? 

I  pray  you  tell  me,  was  this  well  devised  ? 

Den.   You  are  changed  foul  with  it :  nay,  stand  more  off; 
Was  it  your  meaning  ? 

Ch.  Ay,  mine,  very  mine  ; 

I  will"  not  lose  it. 

Den.  Doth  my  sense  hold  fast  ? 

It  is  not  possible  you  should  do  this 


52  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  scape  the  smell  of  blood.     Nay,  I  but  dream ; 
For  if  I  wake,  the  substance  of  my  flesh, 
This  form  and  fast  impression  of  the  air, 
Yea,  the  most  holy  sun,  are  counterfeit ; 
We  stick  yards  deeper  than  the  foot  of  hell. 
You  see  not  well  how  foul  a  face  you  have,  — 
I  will  cry  out  on  you. 

Ch.  Are  you  fallen  mad  ? 

Den.   I  will  put  proclamation  in  the  wind 
That  where  but  any  shape  of  breath  shall  blow 
It  shall  sound  harsh  as  murder.     Do  you  think 
God  shall  sit  fast  and  blink  at  you  ? 

Ch.  What  more  ? 

Get  on ;  I  do  not  chide  you ;  nay,  get  breath ; 
Spare  me  no  whit. 

Den.  I  hate  you  beyond  death  ; 

Somewhat  I  had  to  say ;  give  ear  to  me. 
—  It  is  all  lost  now,  spilt  in  water,  runs 
Into  sick  tears.     Forgive  me  my  loud  words, 
I  have  much  erred  against  your  gracious  game, 
Mistaking  all  of  you  ;  I  do  confess 
This  jest  so  said  has  proved  me  dull  and  thick ; 
Now  say  it  was  well  played  and  let  me  go. 
You  have  played  well  indeed,  and  such  hard  parts  — 
Now  I  shall  slip  into  mad  speech  again 
And  fail  myself. 

Ch.  What  is  it  you  will  do  ? 

Den.   Alack,  I  see  not  that.     Indeed  I  think 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  53 

*  It  is  God's  will  to  kill  me  first  i'  the  brain 
And  after  in  the  flesh.     I  am  half  mad. 
But  I  can  speak  ;  yea  surely,  I  can  speak ; 
And  I  will  cry  in  all  the  streets  and  make 
Twinned  correspondence  'twixt  the  tongued  Seine  banks 
With  sound  and  breath,  clamor  and  noise  of  tears, 
And  windy  witness  of  your  enterprise. 
O,  you  are  moved  now ;  keep  on  that  better  face 
And  I  will  find  some  weeping  way  to  you, 
Persuading  sin  to  peace  ;  you  shall  not  do  it ; 
Lest  all  the  recollection  of  men's  lips 
And  noise  of  all  just  times  and  every  place 
That  hath  but  any  shape  of  good  on  it 
Be  sharp  on  you  forever. 

Enter  the  Queen-Mother  and  GUISE. 

Ca.  So,  you  are  loud, 

I  come  betimes.     Sir,  if  you  spare  me  room, 
I  have  two  words  to  say. 

Ch.  I  am  bound  to  you ; 

You  have  care  of  me  indeed.     Bid  her  go  in. 

Ca.   I  would  not  be  untimely. 

Ch.  No,  you  are  not, 

You  are  a  gracious  mother,  a  good  help. 
(To  Denise.)    I  '11  see  you  soon  at  night. 

Den.  My  lord,  my  lord  — 

Ca.   Give  my  son  breath  at  least ;  you  are  impatient ; 
It  suits  you  not. 


54  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

GUI.    (To  the  King.}    I  wait  upon  your  highness. 

Ch.   We  are  bounden  to  you  too.     Madam,  go  in. 

[Exit  DENISE. 

Ca.   My  son,  you  put  too  large  a  face  on  this. 

Ch.   Mother,  I  put  no  face  on  it  at  all. 
Come,  pray  you  now,  what  do  you  look  to  get 
By  such  a  use  of  me  ? 

Ca.  You  take  strange  ways 

To  chide  me  with  ;  I  did  expect  your  good. 
Always  it  is  the  plague  of  love  to  be 
Thus  mated  by  some  check.     I  will  go  play ; 
Farewell. 

Ch.  Nay,  now  you  shall  not  go.     My  lord, 

Tell  her  I  meant  no  shame,  no  red  i'  the  cheek ; 
Say  now  I  did  not. 

Ca.  I  am  content  enough. 

You  may  well  see  why  we  are  come  to  you. 

Ch.  Yea,  that  I  see. 

Gut.  The  men  are  at  full  point ; 

Also  the  marshal  helps  us  at  all  need 
And  some  things  over. 

Ca.  You  turn  jealous  of  him. 

Gui.   Madam,  I  wear  no  envy  on  my  words. 

Ca.   Sir,  you  are  safe.     Truly  I  am  so  glad 
Now  this  thing  clears  i'  the  working  and  comes  straight, 
I  could  well  jest  and  laugh. 

Ch.  So  could  I  not ; 

All 's  not  squared  yet ;  you  are  too  hot  on  it 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  55 

Ca.   Too  hot  am  I  ?     Sir,  you  much  wrong  your  honor 
Taxing  such  heat  in  me  ;  I  have  proof  of  you, 
So  hath  the  Guise,  that  you  have  wrought  herein 
As  hard  as  any. 

Gui.  I  take  your  part  as  mine 

For  witness  of  my  lord's  free  grace  and  will 
Towards  this  matter. 

Ch.  This  matter,  —  call  it  so  ; 

Have  you  such  honey  in  the  mouth,  my  lord, 
To  make  a  milky  matter  of  the  name  ? 
Why,  if  men  are  to  call  us  murderers, 
Let 's  take  the  word  up  and  not  tell  such  lies, 
Skulking  with  beaten  cheeks  behind  the  word. 

Gui.   (Aside  to  Cath.)   He  is  touched  the  wrong  side  yet 

Ca.   (Aside  to  Guise.)    I  have  stung  myself; 
This  girl  I  set  on  him  has  thrown  us  out, 
Played  her  own  way.     That  we  should  pay  such  apes 
To  pinch  us  in  the  wrist ! 

Ch.  What  are  you  saying  ? 

Ca.   Take  your  best   means :    here  's  none  shall  cross 

you,  sir. 

We  do  but  say  if  you  will  give  them  leave 
To  slit  your  throat  with  whispering,  —  or  abed 
Take  medicine  of  them,  —  or  wear  gloves  of  theirs,  — 
Or  please  your  mouth  with  drinking  after  them,  — 
It  is  no  matter. 

Ch.  Would  you  have  me  mad  ? 

I  have  not  heard  of  such  a  tax  on  them  ;    * 


56  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

No,  not  since  Florence  taught  us  to  use  drugs 
Has  it  been  noised  of  these. 

Ca.  I  think  indeed 

That  poison  hath  no  Florence  in  the  drug 
Which  puts  the  peril  of  so  hard  a  speech 
In  my  son's  lip.     Do  not  unsay  it ;  no  : 
I  do  not  bid  you  take  the  blur  from  me. 
I  am  content  to  stay  and  take  shame  up 
So  I  may  suit  you.     O  sweet  son,  —  my  lord, 
Forgive  me  that  my  tongue  so  slips  on  you, 
Catching  the  old  name  first,  —  I  pray  you  note 
That  I  can  be  as  patient  as  your  ear 
Hath  been  of  me  too  long.     This  is  the  last 
That  I  shall  ever  take  of  words  to  push 
Your  just  forbearance  beyond  use.     I  said 
"  Farewell "  as  idly  as  one  says  "  good  thanks  " 
To  him  that  hath  not  earned  it :  but  I  see 
Here  is  made  room  for  a  farewell  indeed. 
Now  could  I  take  it  silently  and  go, 
Turning  my  very  passion  to  content 
And  no  whit  using  it :  I  am  not  abashed, 
Albeit  I  speak  as  one  whom  shame  has  marred ; 
That  I  am  not  I  pray  take  no  offence, 
For  should  I  show  a  penitent  herein 
I  must  do  penance  for  much  care  of  you, 
And  this  I  will  not.     Be  not  offended  with  me ; 
For  God  doth  know,  sweet  son,  that  in  my  life 
I  have  used  many  days  in  loving  you. 


THE  .QUEEN-MOTHER.  57 

Consider  of  it :  I  do  not  boast  myself, 

Seeing  I  but  fall  within  the  range  and  scope, 

The  limit  and  fair  marge  of  a  good  law ; 

Yet  if  I  have  not  been  there  excessive  (as 

I  say  not  that  I  have  one  whit  exceeded), 

Surely  I  have  not  shortened  its  just  room 

Or  narrowed  in  the  sweet  law's  offices. 

That  I  am  so  put  off  I  say  is  well ; 

You  are  wise  herein  ;  for  women  at  best  count 

Are  the  mere  spoil  of  a  male  reason,  lie 

In  his  loosest  thoughts  outside.     We  are  the  chaff, 

The  gross  unwinnowed  husks  of  your  fanned  wheat ; 

I  say  that  you  do  well  to  turn  me  off. 

But  this  too  for  my  witness  I  should  say ; 

That  if  you  do  me  there  a  word  of  wrong, 

Yea  the  thin  grain  of  one  particular  word, 

The  same  is  worse  than  ill.     I  pardon  it 

That  I  did  love  you,  God  shall  do  me  right 

To  bring  the  credit  will  approve  it  me  : 

That  I  have  sought  your  health  yourself  believe  ; 

That  I  did  love  the  state  and  would  get  ease 

For  its  wried  body,  shall  make  smooth  my  name 

In  patient  reputation  of  good  men. 

The  end  of  that  is  come.     Sir,  this  much  yet ; 

Since  you  have  thus  delivered  up  your  place, 

Your  worth  and  body  to  the  love  of  these 

£t 

That  hate  me  deadly  —  wherein  you  do  well, 
For  yet  I  will  not  say  but  you  do  well  — 

3* 


58  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  will  entreat  such  almsgiving  of  you 

As  for  my  son  of  Anjou  and  myself 

May  serve  to  make  us  a  safe  place  away, 

Where  we  may  keep  behind  the  perilous  time 

And  house  with  simple  peace.     For  I  do  know 

That  howsoe'er  these  fare  as  friends  with  you, 

With  us  they  will  but  fare  as  murderers  do 

That  live  between  the  sharpening  of  a  knife 

And  the  knife's  edge  imbrued.     This  being  made  sure, 

I  take  my  leave  of  a  most  royal  care 

That  has  been  precious  pain  to  me,  and  is 

No  costlier  than  a  pin.     The  end  is  here 

That  I  have  gladly  answered. 

Ch.  You  say  well ; 

I  would  not  have  you  think  so  thinly  of  me 
As  that  girPs  mercy  and  the  feeble  flesh 
Prevail  upon  advice.     I  love  you  much. 
But  me  she  heeds  not ;  tell  her  you,  my  lord, 
I  love  no  meddled  policy  of  man's 
Before  her  honor. 

Ca.  I  am  perfect  in  your  way. 

Best  let  me  part  more  quickly. 

Ch.  You  shall  not  go. 

Gut.   Madam,  your  son  is  tempered  graciously  ; 
You  see  his  will  keeps  good. 

Ch.  Ay,  so  it  doth  ; 

I  thank  you,  sir ;  you  see  my  will  is  good. 

Ca.   I  had  rather  be  a  thing  of  laboring  days 
Than  a  so  childed  mother. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  59 

Gui.  You  must  give  her  way. 

Ca.    It  is  not  fit  that  I  should  wear  your  time. 

Ch.   That  year  of  mine  is  lame  wherein  you  lack. 

Ca.   Nay,  there  's  no  speech  of  silk  will  serve  your  turn, 
You  must  be  whole  with  me  or  break ;  I  '11  have 
No  patched  alliance,  lank  allegiances, 
Starved  out  of  use. 

Ch.  I  do  not  like  the  business. 

Ca.    Nay,  but  speak  large  ;  what  is  it  you  mislike  ? 

Ch.   Keep  you  that  way. 

Ca.  Why  this  is  what  I  said. 

Ch.    I  have  thought  of  it,  and  have  informed  my  heart 
How  pale  distempering  evil  makes  the  blood 
That  ran  full  way  before.     I  will  not  do  it ; 
Lest  all  that  regiment  of  muffled  years 
Now  huddled  in  the  rear  and  skirts  of  time 
I  must  walk  through,  take  whips  into  their  hands 
To  bruise  my  shame  withal. 

Ca.  I  heed  you  not. 

It  is  the  sick  and  infirm  spite  of  fear 
Makes  your  will  insolent.     But  as  it  please  you  ; 
It  is  not  I  that  shall  wear  death  for  it. 

Gui.   You  do  both  stray :  give  me  some  leave  to  speak, 
And  keep  your  patience  whole.     Right  noble  sir, 
For  my  poor  worth  and  special  reverence  here 
I  would  not  waste  the  price  of  half  an  hour ; 
Though  I  might  say,  and  no  man  cross  the  lie, 
That  in  the  personal  state  of  mine  esteem 


60  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  have  kept  endurance  on  against  a  wrong 

That  might  put  blood  i'  the  dead.     My  royal  father, 

Whose  cost  did  earn  the  sum  of  such  a  name, 

Yea,  even  to  full  repute  ;  whose  motive  hand 

Did  the  most  inward  ties  of  war  unloose, 

And  pluck  its  joint  away  ;  this  man  so  built, 

So  strained  and  clean  of  any  weak  revolt 

That  faith  herself  did  set  her  tongue  by  his 

And  use  his  lesson  for  her  proper  text ; 

This  bulk  and  nerve  of  all  your  services 

Fashioned  in  one  man's  work ;  how  he  came  dead 

You  twain  are  no  whit  less  assured  than  I, 

Who  have  thrown  beyond  conjecture.     It  is  poor  truth 

To  say  we  think  that  he  fared  treacherously ; 

If  knowledge  be  no  weaker  than  report, 

And  proof  no  looser  than  a  popular  mouth, 

Then  we  do  know  it.     O,  such  a  want  we  have, 

So  dear  and  so  entire  a  loss  in  him, 

As  should  make  France  the  book  of  all  men's  griefs, 

The  mould  wherein  a  very  face  of  sorrow 

Were  cast  indeed.     That  I  have  not  avenged  him, 

Both  you  dare  swear  :  that  it  is  not  my  shame, 

But  my  sore  pain  and  burden  of  this  time, 

Both  you  do  likewise  see.     How  say  you,  sir  ! 

Will  you  find  sufferance  smoother-faced  than  mine  ? 

Have  I  borne  much  ?  or  is  there  fault  in  me, 

Who  am  the  limit  of  endurances  ? 

Now  in  this  very  point  of  patience  here, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  61 

Even  here,  you  take  me  ;  and  considering  this, 
Commend  the  calm  and  heaviness  in  me 
That  lackeys  your  own  purpose,  runs  before 
Your  proper  care,  pages  your  policy. 
Now,  sir, 

Were  I  a  poor  man's  dog  the  same  were  well ; 
Were  I  a  sick  man's  fool  the  same  were  well ; 
Being  thus,  I  doubt  it  is  not  well  at  all. 
A  father  slain  is  more  than  so  much  bones 
That  worms  and  flies  dishallow,  being  thin  dust 
And  out  of  value  ;  and  personally  to  me 
It  is  much  more.     I  will  not  have  this  way  ; 
Lest  my  most  loving  honor  borne  to  you 
Leave  me  ashamed,  or  service  done  disbark 
All  graces  from  me.     You  were  strongly  sworn, 
Yea,  with  the  assurance  that  all  faith  makes  up, 
To  help  us  mend  the  ravelled  rents  of  time  ; 
But  though  you  had  more  iron  in  your  hand 
Than  you  have  yet,  you  cannot  grasp  therein 
Two  faiths,  two  sides,  two  justices  at  once. 
Choose  you,  and  put  good  will  to  choice  ;  for  me, 
I  am  not  thralled  in  your  election. 

Ch.   Madam,  his  talk  flies  far. 

Ca.  True,  he  speaks  right. 

Ch.   Should  I  not  answer  with  a  lip  more  tame, 
This  friendship  might  turn  slack. 

Gui.  I  keep  still  loyal. 

Ch.  Yea,  sir,  we  doubt  you  nothing,  nothing  at  all : 


62  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

You  are  our  lawful  friend  ;  you  speak  all  well ; 
You  have  had  wrong,  men  use  you  grievously  ; 
And  I  do  love  you  for  your  bearing  it. 

Ca.   The  man  that  slew  Duke  Francis  has  his  breath. 

Ch.   Ay,  and  his  blood,  some  scantlings  too  of  that : 
We  saw  what  tithe  of  it  was  spilled  in  him. 
Still  it  is  quaint  that  such  a  shaken  scalp, 
So  gray  as  that,  should  cover  so  much  red  ; 
'T  is  very  strange  and  quaint ;  ha,  think  you  not  ? 

Ca.   (To  Guise.}  All's  clear  again  ;  he  smells  about  the 

blood 

That  shall  incense  his  madness  to  high  strain  ; 
Look,  now  he  peers  and  fingers  on  his  sleeve. 

Gui.    Pish  !  it  looks  ugly. 

Ca.  I  must  push  him  yet, 

Make  his  sense  warm.     You  see,  blood  is  but  blood  ; 
Shed  from  the  most  renowned  veins  o'  the  world, 
It  is  no  redder  ;  and  the  death  that  strikes 
A  blind  broad  way  among  the  foolish  heaps 
That  make  a  people  up,  takes  no  more  pains 
To  finish  the  large  work  of  highest  men  ; 
Take  heart  and  patience  to  you  ;  do  but  think 
This  thing  shall  be  no  heavier  then,  being  done, 
Than  is  our  forward  thought  of  it. 

Ch.  Ay  true, 

But  if  men  prate  of  blood  —  I  '11  none  on  me. 
And  yet  I  care  not  much.    You  are  wise,  mother  ; 
You  know  me  through,  ay,  and  know  God  as  well, 
Whom  I  know  not.     This  is  a  grave  thing. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.  Yea, 

And  graver  should  be  if  I  gave  you  way. 
What  are  you  made  God's  friend  for  but  to  have 
His  hand  over  your  head  to  keep  it  well 
And  warm  the  rainy  weather  through,  when  snow 
Spoils  half  the  world's  work  ?  shall  I  let  you  go 
And  slip  your  boy's  neck  from  God's  hold  on  it 
To  graze  and  get  mere  pasture  like  a  beast  ? 
Nay,  child,  there  's  nothing  better  for  a  man 
Than  to  trust  God  ;  why,  must  I  tell  you  that  ? 
Is  there  more  beard  than  blood  in  cheeks  like  this 
Till  some  one  smite  them  ?     Now  I  think,  I  think 
And  praise  God  for  it,  the  next  Huguenot 
Who  plucks  you  by  the  ear  or  smites  on  the  face 
Shall  do  no  much  work  after. 

Ch.  True,  madam, 

I  need  be  king  now  ;  you  speak  true  in  that. 

Ca.   I  '11  call  you  king  then  always,  king  and  son, 
Dear  son  and  lord  of  mine.     Hold  fast  on  this 
And  you  are  man  indeed,  and  man  enough 
To  teach  command  to  the  world  and  make  its  back 
Stoop  for  allegiance.     See  you,  my  fair  son, 
This  sweet  face  of  authority  is  a  mask 
For  slaves  to  rivet  or  undo  the  joint, 
Except  one  wear  it  in  the  eyes  of  them 
A  witness  to  outbear  shame  and  revolt 
And  maim  resistance  in  the  hands  ;  you  were 
Never  yet  king,  never  had  will  to  wear 


64  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

That  circle  that  completes  the  head  with  gold 
And  shuts  up  strength  inside  the  hold  of  it ; 
You  are  now  made  man. 

Ch.  And  you  made  mother  twice, 

Not  by  gross  generation  of  the  womb, 
But  issue  of  more  princely  consequence  ; 
Set  this  day  gold  upon  your  writ  of  life, 
The  last  of  child-bearing  for  you  ;  so  God 
Give  you  good  time  of  it ! 

Ca.  Ay,  grace  to  thank 

That  grace  that  gives  not  mere  deliverance 
From  unrespective  burdens  of  the  flesh, 
But  the  keen  spirit  refines  and  recreates 
To  gracious  labor.     That  God  that  made  high  things. 
He  wrought  by  purpose  and  secure  design 
The  length  of  his  contrivance  ;  he  set  not  tigers 
In  the  mean  seat  of  apes,  nor  the  wild  swine 
I'  the  stabled  post  of  horses  ;  birds  and  dogs 
Find  portion  of  him,  and  he  sets  the  fish 
In  washing  waters  ;  rain  and  the  sweet  sun 
He  shuts  and  opens  with  his  hand  ;  and  us 
Hath  he  set  upright  and  made  larger  eyes 
To  read  some  broken  letters  of  this  book 
Which  has  the  world  at  lesson  ;  and  for  what, 
If  we  not  do  the  royalest  good  work, 
If  we  not  wear  the  worth  of  sovereignty 
As  attribute  and  raiment  ?    At  our  feet 
Lies  reason  like  a  hound,  and  faith  is  chained  ; 
Lame  expectation  halts  behind  our  ways, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  6; 

The  soundless  secret  of  dead  things  is  made 

As  naked  shallows  to  us.     It  is  for  that 

We  owe  strong  service  of  the  complete  soul 

To  the  most  cunning  fashioner  that  made 

So  good  work  of  us  ;  and  except  we  serve, 

We  are  mere  beasts  and  lesser  than  a  snake, 

Not  worth  his  pain  at  all ;  so  might  we  shift 

The  soul  as  doth  that  worm  his  colored  back, 

And  turn  to  herd  with  footless  things  that  are 

The  spoil  of  dust  and  raiff.     To  close  up  all, 

Death  takes  the  flesh  in  his  abhorre"d  hands 

Of  clean  alike  and  unclean  ;  but  to  die 

Is  sometimes  gracious,  as  to  slip  the  chain 

From  wrist  and  ankle  ;  only  this  is  sad, 

To  be  given  up  to  change  and  the  mere  shame 

Of  its  abominable  and  obscure  work 

With  no  good  done,  no  clean  thing  in  the  soul 

To  sweeten  against  resurrection-time 

This  mire  that  made  a  body,  lest  we  keep 

No  royalties  at  all,  or  in  the  flesh 

The  worm's  toothed  ravin  touch  the  soul  indeed. 

Ch.   Madam,  I  hold  your  sentence  good  to  hear  ; 
I  '11  do  as  you  would  have  me.     Pray  you  now, 
Make  no  more  record  of  my  foolishness. 
I  have  used  idle  words.     Make  count  of  me 
As  of  your  servant ;  for  from  this  day  forth 
I  '11  hold  no  Huguenot's  throat  one  whit  more  worth 
Than  is  the  cord  upon  it.     Sir,  good  day.          [Exit  King. 


66  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.    I  told  you  this  before  ;  sit  down  and  laugh. 
I  told  you  this  should  be. 

Gui.  We  have  worked  well. 

Ca.     Is  this  no  better  now  than  violent  ways 
To  threaten  the  poor  passage  of  his  life 
With  the  mean  loss  of  some  sick  days  and  hours  ? 
You  would  not  let  him  fill  his  season  up 
And  feed  on  all  his  portions  cut  i'  the  world  ; 
You  have  iron  in  your  policies,  and  hate 
The  unbound  brows  of  composition  ; 
But  I,  whose  cheek  is  patient  of  all  wrongs, 
Who  have  endurance  to  my  garment,  worn 
In  face  o'  the  smiters,  I  know  through  by  heart 
Each  turn  i'  the  crannies  of  the  boy's  spoilt  mind 
And  corner  used  in  it.     Years  gone,  my  lord, 
Before  the  tender  husk  of  time  grew  hard, 
He  would  make  pastime  to  tear  birds  to  death 
And  pinch  out  life  by  nips  in  some  sick  beast ; 
And  being  a  man,  blood  turns  him  white  to  see. 
Believe  me  that,  I  '11  praise  you  more  for  faith 
Than  I  praise  God  for  making  him  a  fool. 
What  shall  get  done  though  hell  stand  up  to  hear 
And  in  God's  heaven  God's  self  become  ashamed, 
The  rule  of  use  rebel  against  its  way, 
The  sense  of  things  upon  itself  revolt, 
To  the  undping  of  man,  —  this  shall  not  fail 
For  the  meek  sake  of  his  most  female  mouth 
That  would  keep  honey  in. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  67 

Gut.  Have  your  way  so  : 

I  do  not  cross  you  ;  keep  that  fashion. 

Ca.  Yea, 

I  think  to  have  it  certainly,  fair  sir  ; 
Keen  man  he  were  that  should  cheat  me  of  it. 
*Gui.   This  screw  of  yours  has  wrenched  him  round  our 

way; 

Yet  these  may  pinch  the  wax,  new-mould  his  face, 
Carve  him  a  mouth,  make  here  an  eye  or  there  ; 
Will  you  wring  loose  their  fingers  till  he  drop 
Like  a  fruit  caught,  so,  In  one's  hollowed  hand  ? 
You  '11  have  some  necks  to  break  across  ere  that 
Why,  Chatillon's  gray  chin  keeps  wagging  down 
Close  at  his  ear  ;  that  demi-dog  Soubise 
Is  made  his  formal  mirth  ;  fool  Pardaillan 
Struts  with  his  throat  up  like  a  cock's,  and  brags 
The  king  is  kind,  —  has  secrets,  —  he  might  say 
Some  grace  was  done  him,  —  would  not  miss  his  luck,  — 
As  for  the  merit  — 

Ca.  So  far  it  goes  by  rote  ; 

Were  there  no  larger  peril  than  hangs  there, 
I  'd  strangle  it  with  but  a  hair  of  mine. 

Gui.   Madam,  I  would  be  fain  to  understand. 

Ca.   Sir,  this  it  is  ;  the  woman  I  set  on 
To  shape  and  stoop  him  perfectly  my  way, 
Is  very  falsely  made  my  thorn,  and  wears 
Such  fashions  as  a  new-enfranchised  slave 
To  beat  his  master  for  delivering  him. 


68  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

She  is  turned  milk,  would  slit  her  web  mis-made 
Now  it  shows  blood  at  edge. 

Gui.  What  ailed  your  judgment  then 

To  light  on  her  ?  had  you  some  plague  i'  the  eye 
To  choose  so  sickly  ? 

Ca.  The  king  did  lean  to  her, 

And  out  of  his  good  will  I  made  this  cord 
To  lead  him  by  the  ear.     Do  not  you  doubt  me  ; 
She  has  not  slit  the  web  so  near  across 
But  her  own  edge  may  turn  upon  her  skin  : 
I  have  a  plot  to  rid  the  time  of  her 
For  some  slight  days. 

Gui.  Some  trick  to  bite  her  life  ? 

Ca.   Nay,  I  '11  not  lose  her  ;  no  more  weight  shall  be 
Than  a  new  time  may  lift  from  her  again. 
I  shall  but  get  a  clog  upon  my  court 
Slyly  removed  ;  a  double  good  shall  bud 
Upon  a  most  small  evil.     Go  with  me 
And  bring  me  to  my  women.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     The  Admiral's  House. 
Enter  COLICKY  and  Attendant 

Co.    Carry  these  letters  to  my  son,  and  bid  him 
Attend  me  with  La  Noue.     If  you  shall  see 
That  noble  man  who  spoke  with  me  to-day, 
Pray  him  be  with  me  too.    This  is  a  care 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  69 

That  I  would  have  you  diligent  in ;  so  shall  you 
Gather  fresh  good  of  me. 

Aft.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Co.   I  shall  be  bound  to  you  ;  the  time  that  makes 
Such  ruin  of  us  doth  yet  bequeath  me  this, 
That  where  I  find  good  service  without  break, 
I  hold  it  dearer  than  a  prosperous  man. 
See  you  be  speedy. 

Att.  I  am  already  hence.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  Louvre. 
Enter  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD  and  YOLANDE  DE  MONTLITARD. 

.  La  R.  You  do  not  use  me  smoothly. 

Vol.  Did  I  sue 

That  you  would  love  me  ?     I  owe  you  nothing. 

La  R.  No  ? 

But  if  I  leave  with  you  so  much  of  me, 
Do  I  not  keep  some  petty  part  of  you  ? 

Vol.  O,  not  a  whit ;  what  would  you  do  with  it  ? 

La  R.   In  faith,  I  know  not. 

Vol.  You  have  the  holy  way 

Of  cutting  clean  an  oath ;  as  you  do  coin  it 
A  girl  might  use  the  like  ;  your  protestation 
Is  made  out  of  the  ravel  of  spoilt  silk  ; 
I  trust  no  such  tagged  speech. 

La  R.  To  do  you  pleasure 

I  would  unswear  the  seated  saints  from  heaven 


7o  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  put  shame  out  of  use  with  violent  breath. 
But  to  my  point. 

YoL  Shall  I  not  say  one  thing  ? 

La  R.  So  I  would  have  you. 

Yol.  Then  I  think,  this  breath 

So  spent  on  my  vexation  is  not  used 
For  love  of  me  — nay,  pray,  you  keep  that  in  — 
But  the  keen  service  of  your  admiral 
To  whom  I  must  be  evidenced. 

La  R.  What  then  ? 

Are  you  too  far  in  hate  to  do  me  good  ? 

Yol-  Too  far  in  faith  to  swell  you  with  such  help ; 
Put  down  i'  the  writing  that  a  woman's  trust 
Is  much  belied  with  you  ;  there  's  no  such  flaw 
As  male  repute  doth  work  to  blot  us  with ; 
I  swear  I  will  not  show  you  anything. 

La  R.   I  do  not  beg  such  alms  of  you  ;  come  back  : 
Do  words  make  all  the  sweet  on  so  sweet  lips  ? 

Yol.    I  did  not  bid  you  shift  your  note  to  this. 
Sir,  that  ring's  edge  of  yours  has  cut  my  glove.      [Exeunt. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  71 

•* 

ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     Environs  of  the  Louvre. 
Enter  DENISE. 

Denise. 
T)  ID  me  keep  silence  ?  though  I  lose  all,  I  '11  wear 

Silence  no  further  on  my  wrong-doings 
That  holds  no  weather  out.     I  '11  speak  then  ;  God, 
Keep  me  in  heart  to  speak  !  because  my  sense, 
Even  to  the  holiest  inward  of  its  work 
This  unclean  life  has  marred ;  I  am  stained  with  it 
Like  a  stained  cloth,  it  catches  on  my  face, 
Spoils  my  talk  midways,  breaks  my  breath  between, 
Paints  me  ill  colors,  plucks  me  upon  the  sleeve, 
As  who  would  say,  "  Forget  me  will  you,  then  ?  " 
Bid  me  keep  silence  ?  yea,  but  in  losing  that 
Lies  are  so  grown  like  dirt  upon  my  lip 
No  kisses  will  wipe  dry  nor  tears  wash  bare 
The  mouth  so  covered  and  made  foul.     Dear  God, 
I  meant  not  so  much  wrong-doing  that  prayer 
Should  choke  or  stab  me  in  the  throat  to  say ; 
For  see,  the  very  place  I  pray  withal 
I  use  for  lying  and  put  in  light  words 
To  soil  it  over :  the  thoughts  I  make  prayer  with 
Fasten  on  ill  things  and  set  work  on  them, 
Letting  love  go.     If  one  could  see  the  king 
And  escape  writing — 


72  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Enter  ClNO. 

Cino.  Yea,  cousin,  at  prayer  so  late  ? 

Teach  me  the  trick,  I  would  be  fain  to  pray, 
I  grow  so  sick  now  with  the  smell  of  time. 
Ah,  the  king  hurts  you  ?  touch  a  spring  i'  the  work 
And  it  cries  —  eh  ?  and  a  joint  creaks  in  it  ? 

Den.  This  fool  wears  out. 

Cino.  At  wrists  ? 

Den.  At  head ;  but,  fool, 

Hast  thou  not  heard  of  the  king  ? 

Cino.  Yea,  news,  brave  news ; 

But  I  '11  not  spoil  them  on  you. 

Den.  My  good  Cino  — 

Nay,  sweet  thing,  fair  sir,  any  precious  word, 
Tell  me. 

Cino.       The  king —  what  will  you  give  me  then  ? 
Half  a  gold  fringe  worn  off  your  cloak  for  alms  ? 

Den.   Nay,  anything  it  wills,  my  Cino.     Quick. 

Cino.  A  ring  ?  yea,  more ;  what's  better  than  a  ring  ? 
A  kiss  I  doubt  of  yours  ;  but  I  '11  have  best, 
Nothing  of  good  or  better. 

Den.  Come,  sir ;  well  ? 

Cino.  Tell  me  what 's  better  than  a  kiss  ;  but  hear  you  ; 
Pull  not  away,  paint  me  no  red ;  the  king  — 

Den.  What  is  the  king  ? 

Cino.  Twice  half  his  years,  I  think ; 

God  keep  him  safe  between  the  grays  and  blacks. 

Den.   My  head  is  full  of  tears  and  fever  ;  hence, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  73 

Get  from  me,  fool.     Thou  ragged  skirt  of  man, 
Thou  compromise  'twixt  nothing  and  a  bat ! 
Blind  half  a  beast !     I  'd  see  thee  hanged  and  laugh. 
What  fool  am  I  to  scold  at  thy  brain's  shell  ? 
What  sort  of  under  thing  shall  I  call  thee, 
Who  am  thy  railer  ? 

Cino.  What  would  you  have  me  ?  ha  ? 

Must  I  poison  my  poor  bread  or  choke  myself 
To  make  French  Chicot  room  ?     Being  simply  fool, 
I  eat  fool's  alms :  I  may  talk  wise  men  down, 
Who  gives  me  sober  bread  to  live  by  ?  see ; 
You  '11  let  me  prate  now  ? 

Den.  Yea,  prate  anything ; 

Find  me  the  queen,  and  I  '11  with  you.     Cino  — 

Cino.   Well? 

Den.  Use  me  better  as  we  go,  poor  fool. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  King,  TAVANNES,  PARDAILLAN,  SOUBISE,  BRANTOME, 
and  others. 

Ch.  Brown  hair  or  gold,  my  lord  Soubise,  you  say  ? 

Sou.   Pure  black  wears  best. 

Par.  He  will  not  say  so,  sir. 

Ch.  Ay,  will  not  ?  are  you  wise,  my  Pardaillan  ? 

Bra.  Yolande  —  you  know  this  damozel  I  mean, 
One  that  has  black  hair  hard  on  blue  — 

Sou.  Hear  that ! 

Blue  hair,  eyes  black  ! 

Bra.  But  note  me  what  she  says : 

4 


74  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Soubise  is  a  fair  name,  and  that  fair  lord 
That  wears  it  sewn  across  his  arm  is  good 
To  give  her  tame  bird  seeds  to  eat. 

Sou.  Her  bird ! 

Bra.   She  has  a  sister  of  your  height,  this  girl, 
Skilled  to  work  patterns  with  gold  thread  and  paint. 

Sou.  Well,  what  of  her  then  ? 

Ch.  Yea,  sir,  hold  by  that. 

Bra.   She  said  this  to  me,  choosing  seeds  of  corn 
To  put  between  her  peacock's  bill,  it  chanced, 
One  summer  time ;  and  biting  with  her  teeth 
Some  husk  away  to  make  the  grain  more  soft, 
She  put  her  mouth  to  the  bird's  mouth  :  but  I  — 
"  Give  me  food  rather,  I  have  need  to  eat "  ; 
Whereat  her  teeth  showed  fuller  and  she  said 
—  The  seed  still  in  her  lip  —  she  laughed  and  said 
Her  two  tame  birds,  this  peacock  and  Soubise, 
Were  all  she  had  to  feed. 

Sou.  I  thank  her. 

Ch.  Well, 

What  followed  ?  that  you  kissed  away  the  seed  ? 

Bra.   Hush  now,  she  comes,  fair  lord. 

tEnter  Queen-Mother,  DEMISE,  YOLANDE,  and  other  Ladies, 
with  ClNO. 

Ca.  Take  heart,  Denise  ; 

I  '11  chide  him  home.  —  Fair  son,  I  hear  hard  news  ; 
My  lord  of  Guise  in  his  ill  hours  of  blood 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  75 

Will  hardly  trust  your  courtesy  to  use 

His  lady's  glove  :  here  was  one  wept  right  out 

At  hearing  of  it. 

Ch.  He  does  belie  my  patience  ; 

It  was  this  lord  that  had  her  glove  away. 

Ca.   The  Guise  is  sick  of  it,  touched  hard  and  home  ; 
It  bites  him  like  a  hurt ;  you  are  his  keen  plague, 
Sharp  sauce  to  hunger,  medicine  to  his  meat, 
A  sufferance  no  pained  flesh  could  hold  upon 
And  not  turn  bitter. 

Ch.  Well,  God  heal  his  head  ! 

Ca.   I  did  not  see  my  lord  Soubise  —  make  room, 
So  thick  a  yellow  crowd  of  ladies'  heads 
Makes  the  air  taste  of  powdered  scent  and  spice 
One  cannot  see  a  friend  ;  my  lord  Soubise, 
We  love  you  well,  what  holds  you  back,  my  lord  ? 

Sou.   Madam  — 

Ca.  They  trouble  us  with  tales  of  you  ; 

Here 's  a  maid  carries  face  of  Montlitard 
Whose  heart  seems  altered  to  a  fresher  name 
The  blood  paints  broader  on  her  cheek,  sweet  fool ; 
Answer  me  this  ;  nay,  I  shall  make  you  clear  ; 
Denise  has  told  me  how  her  middle  sleep 
Was  torn  and  broken  by  lamentings  up, 
By  sudden  speeches,  shreds  and  rags  of  talk, 
And  running,  over  of  light  tears  between  ;  » 

And  ever  the  poor  tender  word  "  Soubise  " 
Sighed  and  turned  over  —  ah,  such  pain  she  had  ! 
Poor  love  of  mine,  why  need  you  spoil  me  her  ? 


76  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Sou.   She  will  not  say  so. 

Yol.  But  she  will  not  say 

She  loves  not,  though  it  sting  her  soul  to  speak, 
Being  still,  woe 's  me,  so  sharp  and  sore  a  truth 
And  hard  to  hide. 

Ch.  Well  said  of  her  ;  strike  hands. 

Cino.  Take  comfort,  daughter ;  he  shall  be  made  fast 

to  thee 

And  the  Devil  climbs  not  in  by  way  of  marriage. 
Conclude  temptation,  and  God  increase  your  joy 
In  the  second  generation  of  good  fools. 
Gripe  fingers  each  ;  I  will  be  bridesman  ;  so. 

Sou.   Fool  —  I  am  hurt  with  wonder,  madam  —  fool  — 

Cino.   Nay,  sir,  keep  hands. 

Ch.  This  is  most  gross  in  you. 

Cino.  Yea,  so  ;  this  is  the  time  of  horn-blowing. 
Did  your  grace  never  eat  stolen  eggs  ?  the  meat  of  them 
Is  something  like  the  mouth  of  a  fair  woman. 
Beseech  you  now  let  your  priest  drink  no  wine 
And  you  shall  have  him  better  for  yourself; 
Sir,  look  to  that ;  I  would  not  have  you  marred. 

Ch.   No,  you  shall  stay. 

Sou.  I  pray  you,  bid  him  peace. 

Ch.   Let  the  fool  talk. 

Cino.  There 's  freedom  for  your  kind  now. 

I  have  not  seen  a  groom  so  blench  and  start ; 
I  wonder  what  shoe  pinched  his  mother  ? 

Sou.  Beast !     \Strikes  him,  and  exit. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  77 

Ca.  You  are  sad,  sir. 

Ch.  I  am  not  well  at  heart. 

Ca.   It  is  the  summer  heat ;  I  have  not  seen 
So  hard  a  sun  upon  the  grape-season 
These  twelve  years  back.  —  Fellow,  look  up,  take  heart ; 
He  cannot  hurt  thee. 

Cino.  Why  not  ?  I  am  no  woman. 

I  am  sure  he  has  made  my  head  swell ;  get  him  married, 
I  '11  do  as  much  for  him.     Eh  ?  will  I  not  ?     (To  Yolande.} 

Vol.   I  will  not  wed  him  ;  so  the  shame  shall  stick 
Where  it  began,  on  him  alone. 

Ca.   (Aside.)  Whispers  ? 

(Observing  Denise  and  the  King.) 
I  do  suspect  you  sorely.     Oh  !  so  close  ; 
Thrusting  your  lip  even  against  his  ear  ? 
Yea,  hold  the  sleeve  now,  pinch  it  up ;  (aloud]  there  may  be 
No  ill  in  this  ;  and  I  have  hope  it  wears 
No  face  of  purpose,  but  I  like  it  not. 

Vol.  What  is  it  you  mislike  ? 

Ca.  Eh  ?  nothing,  I ; 

My  care 's  not  half  the  worth  of  a  fool's  head 
Nor  carries  so  much  weight.     My  lord  Bourdeilles, 
Have  you  no  tale  for  us  ? 

Bra.  Yea,  madam,  a  rare  jest. 

Vol.   We '11  pluck  it  forth. 

Renee.  Ay,  pinch  it  out  of  him  ; 

We  would  be  merry. 

Par.  Umph !  I  know  the  tale. 


78  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Bra.   I  would  not  have  a  gospeller  hear  you,  sir. 

Cino.   I  see  a  tale  now  hang  at  the  king's  sleeve. 

Ca.  A  very  light  one. 

Bra.  But  if  you  hear  me,  madam,  — 

There 's  matter  for  a  leap-year's  laugh  therein. 
The  noble  damsel  of  MauleVrier  — 

Ca.   Is  she  your  tale  ? 

Bra.  Speak  jlow  ;  she  told  it  me. 

Vol.  Where  should  he  hear  it  ? 

Ca.  Peace  now  :  sir,  make  on. 

Bra.   She  being  about  my  lady  of  Navarre 
Last  night,  —  I  mean  some  foolish  nights  ago, 
For  there  last  night  she  was  not,  I  believe,  — 
Made  out  this  jest :  this  is  the  jest  she  made. 

Cino.  'T  is  a  sweet  jest,  but  something  over  ripe. 

Bra.  You  have  not  heard  it. 

Cino.   I  hear  it  with  my  nose,  and  it  smells  rank. 

Bra.  You  all  do  know  his  highness  of  Navarre 
Is  loving  to  his  lady  ;  and,  God's  death, 
She  is  worth  no  less  a  price  ;  nor  doth  affection, 
Being  set  on  her,  outweigh  the  measured  reason 
Nor  sense  of  limit  she  doth  well  deserve  ; 
Yea,  she  outgoes  the  elected  best,  outswells 
What  is  called  good. 

Cino.  A  very  merry  tale. 

Bra.  Prithee,  fool,  peace.  — Now  at  that  time  I  speak  of 
He  was  'at  point  to  come  ;  but  being  delayed 
(The  how  I  say  not  —  this  I  do  not  say ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  79 

Indeed  I  would  not  —  mark  you,  not  the  how) 

He  could  not  come.     She,  grown  hereon  to  heat, 

Chid  at  her  ladies,  wrangled  with  her  hair, 

Drew  it  all  wried,  then  wept,  then  laughed  again  ; 

Till  one  saying,  "  Madam,  I  did  see  my  lord 

About  the  middle  matter  of  the  dusk 

Slip  forth  to  speak  with  "  —  here  she  stayed  ;  the  queen 

Doth  passionately  catch  her  by  that  word, 

Crying  with  whom  ?  and  might  this  be  a  man  ? 

And  should  men  use  her  so  ?  and  shame  of  men, 

And  not  the  grace  of  temperance  in  them 

Which  is  the  cover  and  the  weeds  of  sin  ; 

And  such  wet  circumstance  of  waterish  words 

As  ladies  use  ;  whereto  the  damsel  —  "  Madam, 

I  may  swear  truly  no  man  had  him  forth, 

But  to  swear  otherwise  — " 

Ca.  I  do  perceive  you ; 

There  was  a  conference  of  the  gospellers, 
And  there  was  he. 

Bra.  But  he  that  brought  him  forth  — 

Ca.   Enough,  the  jest  runs  out ;  I  know  your  matter. 
Fair  son,  you  would  be  private  ? 

Ch.  Like  enough  : 

I  do  not  say  you  trouble  me  to  stay, 
But  you  shall  please  me  going. 

Ca.  Good  time  to  you  ! 

Come  with  me,  sirs.     Take  you  the  fool  along. 

[Exeunt  all  but  King  and  DEMISE. 


8o  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ch.    I  am  assured  you  love  me  not  a  whit. 

Den.  You  will  not  set  your  faith  upon  that  thought ; 
I  love  you  dearly. 

Ch.  I  do  not  bid  you  swear  it. 

Den.   I  pray  you,  if  you  know  what  I  would  say, 
That  you  endure  this  feebleness  which  sits 
Upon  my  lips  i'  the  saying. 

Ch.  What  do  you  think  of  me  ? 

Den.   I  know  you  are  my  master,  and  a  king 
That  I  have  called  thrice  nobler  than  his  name  ; 
I  know  my  lip  hath  got  the  print  of  you, 
And  that  the  girdle  of  your  fastened  arms 
Keeps  warm  upon  me  yet ;  and  I  have  thought, 
Yea,  I  have  sworn  it  past  the  reach  of  faith, 
Even  till  the  temperate  heaven  did,  stung  at  me, 
Begin  a  chiding,  —  that  you  loved  me  back 
To  the  large  aim  and  perfect  scope  o'  the  heart ; 
That  I  was  as  a  thing  within  your  blood, 
There  moved,  and  made  such  passage  up  and  down 
As  doth  the  breath  and  motion  of  your  air  ; 
Being  rather  as  a  pain  caught  unawares, 
A  doubtful  fever  or  sick  heat  of  yours 
That  now  the  purging  time  hath  rid  you  of 
And  made  smooth  ease. 

Ch.  You  did  know  better  then. 

Den.   Nay,  then  I  think  I  knew  not  anything ; 
My  wits  were  broken  in  the  use  of  love. 
What  do  you  think  of  me  ?     I  would  know  that. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  81 

Ch.   As  of  a  thing  I  love  —  I  know  not  what ; 
Only  that  any  slight  small  thing  of  yours, 
A  foolish  word,  a  knot  upon  your  head, 
Some  plait  worn  wrong  or  garment  braced  awry, 
Any  girl's  thing  —  doth  grow  so  and  possess 
With  such  a  strength  of  thought,  so  waxen  full, 
The  complete  sum  and  secret  of  my  will 
I  cannot  get  it  out 

Den.  If  that  be  love, 

Then  I  love  you,  which  you  did  swear  a  lie. 
For  I  do  feed  upon  you  in  my  meat 
And  sleep  upon  you  in  my  tired  bed 
And  wake  upon  you  in  my  praying  times, 
As  you  were  used  and  natural  unto  me,  • 

My  soul's  strong  habit  and  nativity. 

Ch.   I  think  you  do  :  I  never  taxed  you  else. 
But  he  that  will  not  swear  I  love  you  back 
Doth  sin  outside  the  heavy  name  of  lie 
And  compass  of  a  villain. 

Den.  I  doubt  you  not 

You  know  that  I  did  urge  you  for  the  queen  ? 

Ch.  Yea :  you  made  up  a  peace  between  our  jars. 

Den.  Ay,  like  a  damned  peacemaker,  a  truce 
More  sharp  than  is  the  naked  side  of  war. 

Ch.  What  now  ?  you  slip  on  that  fool's  text  again  ? 

Den.  That  I  did  pluck  you  over  to  her  side 
I  would  repent  even  in  the  cost  and  price 
Of  my  most  inward  blood,  yea  of  my  heart. 

4*  F 


82  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ch.  You  did  a  good  work  then  :  now  you  turn  sharp. 

Den.   I  do  well  think  that  had  I  never  been 
You  had  not  fallen  in  her  purposes. 

Ch.   I  may  perceive  my  patience  is  your  fool : 
You  make  slight  use  of  me.     Take  note  of  this, 
Henceforth  I  will  not  undergo  the  words 
That  it  shall  please  you  cast  upon  my  place 
In  such  loose  way.    What  makes  you  chide  at  me  ? 
Have  you  no  sort  of  fool  but  me  to  wear 
The  impatient  work  of  your  mistempered  blood 
With  a  soft  spirit  ? 

Den.  You  have  sworn  me  love  ; 

If  you  did  love  me  with  more  worth  and  weight 
Than  slackly  binds  a  two  hours'  liking  up, 
You  would  not  pluck  displeasure  from  my  words. 
1  am  too  weak  to  make  fit  wrath  for  you. 

Ch.  Ay,  that  I  think. 

Den.  You  do  me  right ;  but  mark, 

Being  this  I  am,  not  big  enough  to  hurt, 
I  do  repent  me  past  all  penitence, 
Outweep  the  bounded  sorrow  of  all  words, 
That  I  did  bring  you  to  such  peace  again 
As  hath  its  feet  in  blood. 

Ch.  You  did  then  swear 

Nothing  one  half  so  blessed  and  so  clean 
As  to  make  peace  between  her  lips  and  mine  ; 
You  bade  me  think  how  good  it  was  to  have 
The  grace  of  such  a  gentle  fellowship 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  83 

To  lean  my  love  upon  ;  how  past  the  law 
And  natural  sweetness  of  sweet  motherhood 
Her  passion  did  delight  itself  on  me  ; 
With  all  the  cost  of  rare  observances 
Followed  the  foot  of  my  least  enterprise ; 
Esteemed  me  even  to  the  disvaluing 
Of  her  own  worthy  life  ;  would  not,  in  brief, 
Partake  the  pain  of  common  offices 
And  due  regard  that  custom  hath  of  time 
But  for  my  love.     Was  this  no  talk  of  yours  ? 

Den.   Indeed  I  said  so. 

Ch.  Did  I  not  give  you  faith  ? 

Den.  You  did  believe  me  ;  I  would  you  had  not  so, 
Or  that  some  poisonous  pain  had  killed  my  lips 
Before  they  learnt  the  temper  of  such  words. 

Ch.   What  then,  you  knew  not  this  red  work  indeed  ? 
No  savor  of  this  killing  flecked  your  speech  ? 

Den.   I  know  of  it  ?  but  to  have  lied  and  known 
I  had  been  plagued  past  all  the  gins  of  hell. 
I  know  of  it  ?  but  if  I  knew  of  it 
There  is  no  whip  that  God  could  hunt  me  with 
That  would  not  seem  less  heavy  than  thin  snow 
Weighed  with  the  scars  and  shames  of  my  desert. 

Ch.   But  how  if  such  a  thing  be  necessary  ? 

Den.    There  's  no  such  need  that  bids  men  damn  them- 
selves. 

Ch.   Nay,  but  if  God  take  hell  to  work  withal 
That  is  more  bitter  than  all  waste  of  men, 


84  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  yet  God  makes  the  honey  of  his  law 
Out  of  its  sharp  and  fire-mouthed  bitterness, 
Why  may  not  I  take  this  ?  yea,  why  not  I  ? 

Den.   If  you  shall  think  on  murder,  how  it  is, 
How  mere  a  poison  in  all  mouths  of  men 
That  only  at  the  casual  use  of  it 
Sicken  and  lose  the  rule  of  their  discourse, 
Being  wounded  with  it ;  how  poorest  men  alive 
That  in  dull  drink  have  chanced  upon  a  life 
Are  slain  for  it,  and  the  red  word  of  sin 
Doth  elbow  them  at  side  and  dig  their  grave 
And  makes  all  tongues  bitter  on  them,  all  eyes 
Fills  out  with  chiding  —  how  very  knaves  do  loathe 
The  tax  and  blot  of  such  a  damne'd  breath 
As  goes  to  call  hard  murder  by  his  name  ; 
Yea,  how  blood  slain  shall  not  be  healed  again, 
Never  get  place  within  the  ruined  veins, 
Never  make  heat  in  the  forsaken  flesh ; 
O,  you  shall  think  thereon. 

Ch.  Have  I  not  thought  ? 

Den.   Not  this  I  bid  you,  this  you  have  not  thought ; 
How  to  each  foot  and  atom  of  that  flesh 
That  makes  the  body  of  the  worst  man  up 
There  went  the  very  pain  and  the  same  love 
That  out  of  love  and  pain  compounded  you, 
A  piece  of  such  man's  earth ;  that  all  of  these 
Feel,  breathe,  and  taste,  move  and  salute  and  sleep, 
No  less  than  you,  and  in  each  little  use 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  85 

Divide  the  customs  that  yourself  endure  ; 

And  are  so  costly  that  the  worst  of  these 

Was  worth  God's  time  to  finish  ;  O,  thus  you  shall  not, 

Even  for  the  worth  of  your  own  well-doing, 

Set  iron  murder  to  feed  full  on  them. 

Ch.   Fret  me  no  more  ;  I  shall  turn  sharp  with  you. 

Den.   O,  sir,  in  such  dear  matter  as  I  have 
I  fear  not  you  at  all.     You  shall  not  go. 

Ch.   I  may  forget  your  body's  tender  make 
And  hurt  you.     Do  not  put  me  from  myself ; 
I  am  dangerous  then;  being  sobered,  I  do  know 
How  rash  and  sharp  a  blood  I  have,  and  weep 
For  my  fierce  use  of  it :  push  not  so  far. 

Den.  Yea  now,  put  all  the  bruise  of  them  on  me 
And  I  will  thank  you.     You  did  hurt  me  once, 
Look  here,  my  wrist  shows  where  you  plucked  it  hard ; 
I  never  spoke  you  ill  for  it ;  you  shall 
Do  me  worse  hurt  and  I  not  cry  at  all. 

Ch.   This  is  fool's  talk. 

Den.  And  once  in  kissing  me 

You  bit  me  here  above  the  shoulder,  yet 
The  mark  looks  red  from  it ;  you  were  too  rough, 
I  swore  to  punish  you  and  starve  your  lip 
To  a  more  smooth  respect.     I  have  loved  you,  sir ; 
Sir,  this  is  harsh  that  you  regard  me  not. 

Ch.   Nay,  peace  !  I  will  not  have  you  loud. 

Den.  My  lord  — 

Ch.  Say  "  Charles  "  now ;  be  more  tender  of  your  mouth. 


86  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Den.   Sir,  the  shame  that  burns  through  my  cheek  and 

throat 

Cannot  get  words  as  hot  as  blood  to  speak, 
Or  you  would  hear  such ;  keep  your  eyes  on  me, 
Ay,  look  so  ;  have  you  sense  or  heart,  my  lord  ? 
Are  you  not  sorry  if  one  come  to  wrong  ? 

Ch.  This  is  some  trap.   What  makes  you  turn  so  quick ' 

Den.   Yea,  king,  are  you  ?  yea,  is  this  not  the  king  ? 
And  I  so  pray,  speak  words  so  hard  to  speak, 
Kneel  down,  weep  hard, — but  you  shall  hear  this  out, — 
To  be  put  like  a  garment  off?  not  so. 
The  queen-mother  throws  nets  about,  spins  well, 
Contrives  some  thread  to  strike  the  whole  web  through, 
To  catch  you  like  a  plague,  — there 's  worse  and  worse, — 
What  hurt  is  it,  what  pain  to  men  outside, 
Although  she  ruin  us,  make  spoil  of  us, 
Melt  the  gold  crown  into  a  ring  of  hers, 
What  harm  ? 

Ch.  What  harm  by  God !     I  think  much  harm. 

Den.   But  this  is  worse  —  to  catch  France  in  her  trap, 
People  and  all,  body  and  soul ;  cheat  God, 
Ruin  us  all,  as  ruined  we  shall  be, 
I  know  not  how  too  well,  but  something  thus, 
And  now  God  puts  this  hour  of  time  to  be 
A  steel  sword  in  your  hand,  and  says  withal, 
"  Now  give  me  token  if  there  be  a  king 
Inside  you,  do  me  right  who  made  you  way, 
Drew  you  so  high  "  ;  I  pray  you  for  God's  love 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  87 

Let  none  put  thievish  fingers  on  the  time, 
Loosen  your  sword  God  girt  so  next  your  side. 
What,  men  steal  money  and  you  hang  for  that, 
What,  one  puts  just  his  little  knife  in  you 
As  I  put  just  a  bodkin  in  this  hair, 
And  he  gets  choked  with  cord  and  spat  upon  — 
But  when  some  treason  stabs  belief  in  the  back, 
Thrusts  its  tongue  out  and  wags  its  head  at  God, 
Turns  bitter  his  sweet  mouth  with  vinegar, 
Bruises  him  worse  than  any  Pilate's  Jews, 
These  men  go  free  ?     It  were  too  hard  to  think. 
Yea,  sir,  I  will  not  have  you  lift  your  lip, 
Yea,  you  may  smite  me  with  your  foot,  fair  lord, 
Whom  yesterday  you  kissed  here  in  the  mouth ; 
I  lay  no  care  on  life  or  on  this  breath 
Or  on  this  love  that  hath  so  dead  an  end  ; 
More  ill  is  done  than  good  will  ever  be, 
And  I  now  pluck  the  finished  fruit  of  it 
Planted  by  bitter  touches  of  the  lip, 
False  breath,  hot  vows,  the  broken  speech  of  lust, 
By  finger-pinches  and  keen  mouths  that  bite 
Their  hard  kiss  through :  nay,  but  I  pray  you  well 
Let  there  be  no  more  ill  than  grows  hereon, 
No  such  kiss  now  that  stings  and  makes  a  stain, 
No  cups  drunk  out  that  leave  dead  lees  of  blood. 
Be  sorry  for  me  ;  yea,  be  good,  my  king, 
Tender  with  me  :  let  not  the  queen-mother 
Touch  me  to  hurt :  sir,  know  you  certainly 


88  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

None  loves  you  better :  also  men  would  say 
It  may  be  some  joy  you  have  had  of  me  ; 
Even  for  that  sake,  for  that  most  evil  sake, 
Have  some  good  mercy. 

Ch.  Mad,  but  really  mad  ! 

Here,  child,  put  up  your  hands  in  mine,  Denise  : 
By  God's  blood,  the  girl  shakes  and  shakes  and  burns  — 
What,  have  you  fever  ? 

Den.  None,  no  pain  ;  but,  sir, 

Be  pitiful  a  little ;  my  sweet  lord, 
Have  you  not  had  me  wholly  in  one  hand 
To  do  your  will  with  ?  would  I  lie  to  you  ? 

Ch.  Eh,  would  you  lie  ?  well,  God  knows  best,  I  doubt. 

Den.  I  pray  God  bring  me  quick  to  bitter  hell 
If  I  lie  to  you  :  have  you  eyes  at  least  ? 
That  woman  with  thin  reddish  blood-like  lips, 
That  queen-mother  that  would  use  blood  for  paint, 
Can  you  not  see  her  joint  the  trap  for  you, 
Not  see  the  knife  between  her  fingers,  sir, 
Where  the  glove  opens  ? 

Ch.  This  is  right  your  way ; 

A  sweet  way,  this  ;  what  will  you  bid  me  do  ? 

Den.   Not  this,  not  this  she  pulls  you  on  to  do  ; 
Not  set  a  treason  where  a  promise  was, 
Not  fill  the  innocent  time  with  murder  up, 
Not  — 

Ch.  Tush  !  some  preacher's  plague  has  caught  the  child. 
Are  you  mad  truly  ?  some  strange  drink  in  you  ? 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  89 

Den.   Sir  — 

Ch.  Do  you  take  me  for  no  king  at  all, 

That  you  talk  this  ?     I  never  heard  such  talk. 
No  hands  on  me  ;  nay,  go,  and  have  good  day. 

[Exit  DEMISE. 

Re-enter  the  Queen-Mother  and  YOLANDE. 

Do  you  note  this,  our  mother  ? 

Ca.  Yea,  and  well. 

Ch.   This  is  the  very  mercy  of  a  maid ; 
To  cut  a  hand  off  lest  a  finger  ache 
And  paint  the  face  of  resolution  white 
Lest  the  red  startle  one. 

Ca.  It  is  most  true ; 

I  pray  you  be  not  movable  of  wit 
Or  waxen  to  her  handling. 

Ch.  I  will  not ; 

There 's  nothing  shall  have  time  to  startle  me, 
Being  in  this  work  so  deep  ;  no  delicate  sense 
That  gathers  honey  at  her  lip  shall  fool 
The  resolution  and  large  gravity 
That  holds  my  purpose  up.     I  am  no  fool ; 
I  will  go  through  with  it ;  I  am  no  boy 
To  be  kissed  out  of  mind  :  I  will  not  fail.  [Exit. 

Ca.  Yolande,  this  way ;  come  nearer,  my  fair  child ; 
I  love  you  well ;  there  's  no  such  mouth  at  court 
For  music  and  fair  color :  sit  by  me  ; 
How  pleasant  is  it  to  find  eyes  to  love 


90  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

That  will  not  cheat  or  flatter  one  !     Dear  maid, 
I  think  you  find  a  time  between  two  loves 
To  put  some  poor  dwarfed  liking  by  for  me  ? 
Indeed  you  may ;  see  if  I  love  you  not ; 
Get  me  to  proof. 

Vol.  You  are  my  gracious  mistress  ; 

I  would  be  always  glad  of  service  done 
And  found  worth  taking. 

Ca.  Do  you  love  Denise? 

Meseems  the  girl  grows  whiter  and  less  straight, 
Dull  too,  I  think  ;  eh,  you  think  otherwise  ? 

Vol.   She  seems  to  me  grown  duller  than  spoilt  wine. 

Ca.   I  am  right  glad  you  do  not  think  her  wise. 
I  have  a  plan  to  pleasure  mine  own  self, 
And  do  you  good.    Are  you  content  thereto  ? 

Yol.  Madam,  content. 

Ca.  You  will  not  blench  away  ? 

Not  lightly  start  from  me  ? 

Yol.  I  will  not  so. 

Ca.   I  trust  you  perfectly.  —  Fetch  hither  to  me 
That  box  of  mine  wherein  I  keep  rare  scents  ; 
You  know,  the  one  carved  of  sweet  foreign  wood 
I  use  to  dress  my  hair  and  face  withal. 

Yol.   Madam,  I  shall.  [Exit. 

Ca.  Ay,  it  shall  do  you  good. 

Will  this  one  hold  in  wearing  ?     I  think,  yes ; 
For  I  have  seen  her  tread  upon  sick  flies 
Where  the  other  swerved,  and  would  not  do  them  hurt. ' 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  91 

This  Yolande  is  half  cold,  and  wears  her  pleasure 
No  deeper  than  the  skin ;  thereto  she  is  hard, 
Cunning  and  bold  ;  I  have  heard  tales  of  her ; 
She  hath  the  brain  and  patience  of  hoar  beards 
In  her  most  supple  body.     I  do  not  think 
That  she  shall  wry  her  mouth  on  tasting  blood. 

Re-enter  YOLANDE. 

So,  did  you  miss  it  ? 

Yol.  Madam,  it  is  here. 

Ca.  Thanks  :  have  good  care  of  the  lid,  you  see  it  has 
Fair  foreign  work  of  cunning  little  heads 
And  side-mouthed  puppets  quaintly  cut  on  it : 
See  how  I  pinch  it  open  with  a  trick ; 
I  would  not  have  all  fingers  mix  in  it, 
For  there  are  spices  which  are  venomous  ; 
So  are  best  things  puddled  with  ill  in  them, 
We  cannot  sift  them  through  ;  nothing  so  clean 
But  you  may  tread  it  foul,  nor  so  foul  anything 
That  one  may  never  warp  its  use  to  good  ; 
As  this  which  puts  out  men,  and  is  most  rare 
To  sweeten  gloves  with. 

Yol.  What  am  I  to  do  ? 

Ca.   I  know  not.     Set  a  cushion  to  my  feet ; 
So.  —  One  has  told  me  each  of  you  to-day 
Lay  some  girl's  gift  upon  that  fool  of  mine : 
Is  this  not  true  ? 

Yol.  Madam,  it  was  our  game. 


92  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.  When  you  shall  see  him  give  him  this  for  me ; 

(Gives  her  a  glove.) 

And  yet  not  me,  he  loves  not  me,  poor  fool ; 

Say  that  Denise  had  wrought  him  such  a  glove, 

And  being  incensed  at  his  late  insolence 

Which  he  hath  put  upon  the  king  and  her, 

Was  purposed  to  withhold  it ;  I  will  confirm  you. 

Suppose  a  shift  of  mine  to  vex  the  fool ; 

Say  what  you  will,  but  thrust  her  name  therein  ; 

Look  that  you  take  him  where  she  may  not  see. 

Clasp  the  silk  well  across  my  shoulder  ;  thanks  ; 

I  am  clad  too  thinly  for  a  queen-mother, 

But  all  this  month  is  overhot.     Be  sure 

Nothing  shall  stick  to  us.     Keep  close  to  me.        [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     The  Admiral's  House. 
Enter  LA  NOUE,  TELIGNY,  and  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

La  N.   I  fear  me  he  can  scantly  bear  this  out. 

Tel.   Nay,  fear  him  not ;  there  goes  more  nerve  to  him 
Than  to  some  lesser  scores.     His  competence 
Is  like  that  virtue  in  his  mind  which  fills 
The  shallowness  of  thin  occasions  up, 
And  makes  him  better  than  the  season  is 
That  serves  his  worth  to  work  in.     He  shall  not  live 
And  bear  himself  beyond  the  fear  of  time, 
Where  other  men  made  firm  in  goodness  drop 
And  are  the  food  of  peril. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  93 

La  R.  Doubtless  he  is  most  wise ; 

But  I  misdoubt  he  doth  too  much  regard 
Each  trick  and  shift  of  bastard  circumstance ; 
It  is  the  custom  and  gray  note  of  age 
To  turn  consideration  wrong  way  out 
Until  it  show  like  fear. 

Tel.  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me 

In  what  keen  matter  hath  he  so  blenched  aside 
Since  time  began  on  him  ?  or  in  what  fashion 
Hath  he  worn  fear  ?     The  man  is  absolute, 
Perfectly  tempered ;  that  I  a  little  speak  him, 
Your  less  observance  of  him  shall  excuse 
And  so  my  praise  allow  itself.     He  hath  been 
In  all  hard  points  of  war  the  best  that  ever 
Did  take  success  by  the  hand  ;  the  first  that  wore 
Peace  as  the  double  coronet  of  time, 
The  costly  stone  set  in  red  gold  of  war, 
So  wise  to  mix  reverse  with  sufferance, 
Use  fortune  with  a  liberal  gravity 
And  discipline  calamitous  things  with  grace, 
That  failure  more  approved  him,  being  so  shaped 
And  worn  to  purpose  in  his  wisdom's  worth, 
Than  men  are  praised  for  hazard,  though  it  leaves 
Their  heads  embraced  with  wealth.     His  nobleness  of 

speech 

Hath  made  true  grace  and  temperate  reserve 
But  usual  names  for  his  ;  he  is  too  pure, 
Too  perfect  in  all  means  of  exercise 


94  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

That  are  best  men's  best  pearl,  to  be  esteemed 
At  single  value  of  some  separate  man 
That  the  thin  season  can  oppose  to  him. 

La  R.   I  say  not  else. 

Tel.  So  would  I  have  you  say. 

La  R.   Had  I  dispraised  the  admiral,  it  had  shown 
My  love  to  him  that  I  did  prick  your  speech 
To  such  fair  estimate  of  his  fair  worth. 
The  man  is  come. 

Enter  COLIGNY. 

Co.  Good  morrow,  noble  friends. 

Fair  son,  it  is  a  loving  bound  that  doth 
Limit  your  custom  thus. 

Tel.  I  am  best  pleased 

When  I  may  use  you  thus  familiarly. 

Co.   (To  La  R.)     My  lord,  you  told  me  of  a  way  you  had 
To  bring  the  matter  clear  we  spoke  upon. 

La  R.  Yea,  by  a  woman's  means. 

Co.  I  think  it  was. 

La  R.   I  saw  her  yesternight. 

La  N.  You  did  not  say 

Where  our  hopes  went  ?     I  would  not  trust  you  far. 

La  R.  Nay,  I  did  strain  discretion  out  of  wear ; 
I  told  her  nothing. 

Co.  What  did  you  get  of  her  ? 

I  think  you  called  the  woman  —  umph  —  Yolande. 

La  R.  That 's  your  demand,  what  I  did  get  of  her  ? 
Why,  such  fair  time  as  women  keep  for  us ; 
What  better  should  I  get  ? 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Tel  (To  La  N.)  I  fear  him  greatly ; 

It  is  the  unwound  and  ravelled  sort  of  man 
That  the  proof  uses  worst ;  so  large  of  lip 
Was  never  yet  secure  in  spirit. 

Co.  Sir, 

We  have  looked  for  more  of  you. 

La  R.  This  is  pure  truth ; 

I  had  such  usage  as  made  room  for  talk, 
And  in  the  vantage  of  occasion  put 
Inquiry  on  her,  how  the  queen  her  mistress 
Was  moved  in  temper  towards  us  ;  did  she  say  thus, 
Or  thus  :  you  see  I  spoke  not  as  of  purpose 
To  get  this  out,  but  just  in  some  loose  way ; ' 
As  did  she  put  new  color  in  her  hair, 
Or  what  sweet  kind  of  water  did  she  take 
To  smooth  her  neck,  what  powder  blanch  it  with  ; 
And  twenty  such  blown  matters  out  of  joint ; 
Then  at  the  last  felt  underhand  on  this, 
What  were  her  state-words,  her  talk's  policy  ; 
Which  way  she  bowed  ;  or  should  the  Polish  king 
Weigh  dearer  than  the  duke  of  Alenc.on 
Or  either  than  this  Charles ;  and  thus,  and  thus  5 
Being  so,  you  see,  bosomed  and  gathered  up 
Towards  the  close  and  dearest  time  of  all 
She  could  keep  nothing  safer  than  her  mouth 
Would  let  it  out  for  me ;  and  I  as  quick 
To  catch  her  talk  for  food  as  't  were  a  kiss 
The  last  I  thought  to  find  about  her  lips. 


96  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Co.   But,  to  the  point  she  told  you  of,  —  if  thus 
You  got  one  clear. 

Tel.  Ay,  that,  sir,  show  us  that. 

La  R.   Give  me  the  breath  to  come  to  it,  my  lords ; 
Thus  was  it ;  I  must  hide  her  foolishness 
Deep  as  trust  lies  in  man ;  whereon  I  swore 
Ten  such  sweet  oaths  as  love  doth  take  to  wind 
His  windy  weaving  up ;  then  she  begins 
The  matter  of  her  fear,  thus  quakes  thereon  — 

Tel.  This  will  outlive  all  patience. 

La  N.  Bear  with  it. 

La  R.   The  queen  she  said  was  kind,  not  given  to  put 
Her  care  of  things  outside  her  talk,  but  kind, 
And  would  say  somewhat  —  something  one  might  know  — 
As  this ;  the  queen  was  graciously  disposed 
And  all  sick  humor  of  old  policies 
By  this  blown  out ;  she  would  not  do  men  wrong ; 
We  should  have  music  in  the  month  would  play 
All  harsher-throated  measures  out,  and  make 
Even  in  the  noisy  and  sick  pulse  of  war 
Continual  quiet. 

Co.  Did  she  take  such  words  ? 

La  R.   Even  these  I  tell  you. 

Co.  I  thank  you  for  their  use ; 

This  trouble  hath  borne  fruit  to  us  of  yours. 

La  R.   To  please  a  lesser  friend  than  you  are,  sir, 
I  '11  undergo  worse  labor,  stretch  myself 
To  a  much  keener  service.    Sirs,  farewell : 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER,  97 

I  have  a  business  waits  upon  the  king 

That  narrows  half  my  leisure  seasons  in.  [Exit. 

Co.   What  do  you  say  of  this  ? 

Tel.  May  we  believe 

The  Florentine  would  with  so  light  a  key 
Lock  such  deep  matter  ?     I  do  not  trust  the  man. 

Co.   Sir,  what  say  you  ? 

La  N.  I  rule  not  by  such  levels. 

Co.   I  hold  with  both  of  you ;  and  I  am  glad 
The  time  hath  rid  him  hence. 

Tel.  True,  it  is  fit. 

Co.   He  weighs  much  lighter  than  our  counsel  may. 
By  this  I  doubt  not,  if  his  whore  spake  truth 
(As  commonly  such  have  repute  to  trip 
At  unawares  on  it,  and  escape  lies 
By  disesteem  of  truth)  —  I  say  I  doubt  not 
The  queen  doth  something  cover  in  her  speech 
That  has  more  danger  in  its  likelihood 
Than  a  snake  poison. 

La  N.  Will  you  take  it  so  ? 

Co.   Nay,  so  I  know  it.    Therefore  as  we  prefer 
Before  the  deadly-colored  face  of  war 
The  cold  assurance  of  a  sober  peace, 
And  esteem  life  beyond  death's  violence 
For  all  dear  friends  who  hang  their  weight  on  us; 
It  so  imports  us  to  make  use  of  time 
As  never  was  more  need. 

Tel.  What  must  we  do  for  you  ? 

5  c 


98  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Co.   I  would  send  letters  to  the  province  towns 
For  witness  how  impaired  a  state  we  have 
In  this  loose  Paris  ;  how  like  beleaguered  men 
That  are  at  edge':  of  hunger  and  begin 
To  slacken  their  more  temperate  advice 
And  heat  the  blood  of  counsel,  we  are  bound 
To  the  service  of  this  danger ;  informing  further 
Of  this  my  hurt,  caught  unawares  at  hand 
(As  proof  doth  drive  beyond  the  guess)  of  one 
Who  wears  the  gold  of  Guise  at  his  point's  edge 
And  hath  allowance  for  the  use  of  him 
Rightly  received.     This  being  set  down,  with  more 
That  is  but  half  as  hazardous  as  it 
And  yet  hath  face  enough,  shall  sting  them  through  ; 
So  shall  their  keener  service  overcome 
The  providence  of  these. 

La  N.  They  shall  have  news  ; 

Myself  am  charged  to  be  from  hence  this  week  ; 
The  office  that  I  have  must  be  my  means 
To  steal  upon  our  friends  that  lie  abroad 
And  work  them  to  our  way. 

Tel.  Have  you  no  more  ? 

Co.   This  only,  that  you  warn  our  Paris  men 
To  keep  waked  eyes  this  month  ;  for  as  I  think 
(And  partly  this  is  gathered  of  report 
Which  our  late  evidence  hath  put  sinew  to) 
There  moves  between  the  Guisards  and  the  queen 
Some  certain  question  whose  performance  will 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  99 

Bruise  us  past  use.     Nay,  I  am  sure  of  it ; 

If  proof  may  give  security  large  heart 

And  things  endured  be  held  believable, 

Then  I  am  sure.     Therefore  be  wise  and  swift ; 

Put  iron  on  your  lips,  fire  in  your  feet, 

And  turn  trust  out  of  service.     I  have  no  more ; 

For  me,  this  maimed  and  barren  piece  I  am 

May  bear  the  time  out,  and  sufficient  roof 

Is  in  the  patient  cover  of  a  grave 

To  keep  hard  weathers  off;  but  for  the  cause 

And  for  my  friends  therein  I  take  this  care 

To  counsel  you.     Farewell. 

Tel.,  La  N.  Farewell,  great  lord. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

S  CENE  III.     The  Louvre. 

Enter  the  Queen-Mother,  MARGARET,  DENISE,  YOLANDE, 
and  other  Ladies. 

Ca.   Call  in  my  fool.    You  have  all  made  proof  of  love 
Except  Denise  ;  nay,  she  shall  gift  him  too. 
I  prithee  call  him  to  us.     (Exit  DENISE.)     And  yet  I  think 
The  fellow  turns  half  sour  about  the  lip, 
Being  almost  wholly  dull. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  keep  friends  with  him. 

Ca.   That 's  like  enough,  for  he  doth  love  your  husband. 
But  the  lewd  words  he  put  upon  my  son 
And  on  Denise,  did  all  but  quite  condemn 


ioo  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Our  meek  account  of  them.     It  is  no  matter, 
If  she  can  pardon  him. 

Re-enter  DEMISE  -with  ClNO. 

O,  sir,  come  hither. 

Cino.   I  shall  run  at  your  bidding,  shall  I  not  ? 

Ca.  What  should  you  do  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  there,  what  would  you  be  ? 

Cino.   Not  fool  enough  to  be  a  dog  of  yours. 

Mar.  This  is  no  fool ;  he  can  do  naught  but  rail. 

Vol.  The  fool  has  strayed  among  the  gospellers. 

Cino.   I  begin  to  see  I  am  virtuous  ;   the  wicked  abuse 
me. 

Ca.   Come  hither,  sirrah.     Look  well  upon  this  fellow ; 
Would  you  not  say  a  fool  so  round  of  flesh 
'  Should  be  as  courteous  as  a  spaniel,  ha  ? 
Make  answer,  sir ;  we  are  told  news  of  you, 
What  licensed  things  inhabit  in  your  lip 
That  should  be  whipt  ere  heard,  corrected  first 
And  after  to  offend  :  what  say  you  to  't  ? 

Cino.  Now  shall  I  slip  for  want  of  a  good  tongue 
And  have  my  patience  beaten.     Prithee  lend  me 
A  tongue  of  yours. 

Ca.  Have  I  more  tongues  than  one  ? 

Cino.  A  score  or  so. 

Ca.  Show  us  a  little  first 

What  sort  of  speech  thy  mother  taught  thee  mar. 

Mar.   Ay,  there  it  lies  ;  try  that. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER,  101 

Cino.  What  will  you  have  me  say  ? 

Vol.   His  jests  are  waste. 

Anne.  Pure  scandal  screams  in  them. 

Cino.   You  call  me  gospeller,  ha  ? 

Vol.  Nay,  that  did  I. 

Cino.   Shall  I  turn  preacher  for  your  sake  and  make 
A  parable  of  your  mouths  ? 

Mar,  That,  that ;  come  on. 

Yol.   Put  your  worst  wrath  on  us. 

Rente.  We  '11  hear  the  fool. 

Anne.   Speak  large  and  open ;   spare  us  not ;   speak 
wide. 

Yol.   Now  the  mill  grinds  ;  now  mark. 

Cino.  But  I  shall  rail  indeed 

Now  I  have  holy  leave. 

Mar.  No  matter  ;  prithee  now. 

Cino.   It  is  your  preacher's  parab,le  and  not  mine 
Who  am  your  poor  fool  and  a  simple  thing. 

Ca.   Come,  sir,  dig  out  your  spleen. 

Cino.  Thus  then.     You  are  all  goats  — 

Mar.   Ha? 

Ca.         Hear  him  through  ;  we  must  have  lewder  stuff. 

Cino.  And  that  which  should  make  humbled  blood  in 

you 

And  clothe  your  broader  times  with  modesty 
Runs  all  to  spoil  and  plagues  your  veins  with  heat. 

Yol.  We  must  have  more. 

Anne.  This  is  blunt  matter,  fool. 


102  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Cino.   Hunger  abides  in  you  as  in  a  dog 
That  has  been  scanted  of  flesh-meat  three  days  ; 
Sin  doth  make  house  with  you.     Are  you  pleased  yet  ? 
You  have  smooth  Sodom  in  your  shameful  cheeks  ; 
Respect,  obedience,  the  shut  lips  of  fear, 
Worship  and  grace  and  observation, 
You  have  not  heard  of  more  than  spring-swoln  kine 
Have  heard  of  temperance.     Are  you  yet  satisfied  ? 

Ca.  This  is  dead  ware. 

Mar.  Mere  chaff  that  chokes  the  bin. 

Ypl.  The  dust  of  a  fool's  bones. 

Anne.  Dull  as  a  preacher's  beard. 

Cino.   But  are  you  not  ?  resolve  me  ;  are  not  you  ? 
You  are  made  up  of  stolen  scraps  of  man 
That  were  filched  unawares  ;  you  can  make  no  children 
Because  you  are  grown  half  male  with  wicked  use. 

Ca.   I  '11  have  thee  wjiipt ;  thou  art  a  hollow  fool, 
And  hast  no  core  but  pith.     Why,  any  beast 
That  hath  the  spring  of  speech  in  his  tongue's  joint 
Or  any  talking  nerve,  could  breed  to  this. 
Thou  wert  to  make  us  mirth. 

Cino.  Well,  do  I  not  ?  do  I  not  ? 

Mar.  Who  angles  in  thee  save  for  weeds,  shall  trip 
Over  his  ears  in  mire :  shut  thy  lewd  mouth. 

Ca.  Will  you  take  gifts  to  be  dumb  ?  we  are  wearied 
with  you. 

Cino.   Ay,  and  worse  favors  at  your  prayer  I  will. 

Ca.  You  look  near  white  with  laughing  much,  Yolande ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  103 

Nay,  there  's  no  need  to  catch  so  sharp  at  red. 
Give  me  that  glove  you  keep  for  him. 

Vol.  Here,  madam. 

Ca.   Here,  wear  this,  Cino,  and  be  friends  with  us. 

Cino-  A  fair  gold  thing,  a  finch's  color  i'  the  back  ; 
Too  small  for  me  though  ;  God  change  one  of  us. 

Co,.   Denise  gave  me  the  glove. 

Den.  I,  gracious  madam  ? 

Ca.  You,  gracious  maiden  ;  it  would  span  your  wrist. 
So,  fool ;  beware  you  do  not  rend  it. 

Vol.  Ah ! 

Ca.  What  now  ?  did  a  gnat  sting  you  ? 

Vol.  A  mere  fly ; 

A  mere  gold  fly  ;  I  took  it  for  a  wasp. 

Mar.  What  does  this  mean  ?     Come  hither,  fool ;   sit 
here. 

Ca.   I  will  not  have  him  there.  —  Stand  farther  off.  — 
The  knave's  report  doth  poison  miles  about ; 
Come  half  so  close,  he  '11  kill  you  in  your  ear. 

Cino.   Have  back  your  glove ;    here,  madam,  have  it 

back; 
I  will  not  wear  it. 

Mar.  What  stings  him  now  i'  the  brain  ? 

Cino.   I  am  not  well. 

Ca.  This  is  some  sideways  jest. 

Den.   (Aside.)  God  make  this  business  better  than  my 

thought, 
For  I  do  fear  it. 


104  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Mar.  Do  you  note  his  lips  ? 

Yol.  Yea,  his  eyes  too  ? 

Anne.  He  is  not  well  indeed. 

Was  all  his  railing  prologue  to  this  play 
That  reads  as  dull  as  death  ? 

Cino.  Now  I  could  prophesy 

Like  who  turns  heaven  to  riddles ;  my  brain  beats. 
A  man  were  as  good  ask  mercy  of  dead  bones 
As  of  the  best  lip  here  ;  nay,  I  shall  be 
Quite  marred  amongst  you. 

Ca.  Convey  the  fool  from  us  ; 

This  does  not  look  like  wine. 

Cino.   God  be  with  you ;  be  wise  now,  for  the  fool  is 
gone.  [Exit. 

Ca.   I  do  not  like  the  face  of  this.    Where  had  you 
The  glove  you  gave  me  ? 

Den.  I  gave  you  nothing,  madam. 

Ca.   Does  that  wind  hold  ?     I  must  have  more  of  you. 

Mar.   Madam,  you  do  not  think  — 

Ca.  Give  me  leave,  sweet. 

We  have  had  too  much  peril  in  report 
To  let  this  lie  so  light.    Where  had  you  it  ? 

Den.  Why  do  you  bait  me  out  of  season  thus  ? 
You  know  I  never  had  it. 

Ca.  Oh !  had  you  not  ? 

Then  I  have  dreamed  awry  of  you. 

Den.  Madam  — 

Enter  Attendant. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  105 

Att.   Where  is  the  queen  ? 

Ca.  What  puts  such  haste  in  you  ? 

Am  I  not  worth  a  knee  ? 

Att.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  have  such  tidings  ;  your  poor  fool  is  dead. 

Ca.   Bring  me  to  him.     So  suddenly  to  cease 
Is  to  cry  out  on  his  death's  manner ;  bring  me 
To  see  his  body ;  I  have  a  little  craft 
In  such  a  matter's  healing.     Some  of  you 
Look  to  that  girl ;  she  swoons  to  have  the  deed 
So  entered  in  her  ears. 

Mar.  It  is  too  foul. 

Ca.  God  pardon  her !     Could  she  not  see  that  sharpness 
Was  but  the  gall  and  flaw  of  his  bowed  brain  ? 
It  did  not  hurt  her  more,  being  most  proclaimed, 
Than  she  has  pitied  him.     Bring  her  with  us. 

[Exeunt. 


5* 


io6  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Louvre. 
Enter  LA  NOUE,  SOUBISE,  and  PARDAILLAN. 

Pardaillan. 

T  HAVE  not  heard  such  news. 

•*•     La  N.  'Faith,  they  sound  ill ; 

If  women  of  so  choice  and  costly  names 
Turn  worse  than  popular  murders  are,  we  have  all 
Much  need  to  help  ourselves. 

Sou.  This  is  their  fashion  ; 

Their  blood  is  apt  to  heats  so  mutable 
As  in  their  softer  bodies  overgrow 
The  temper  of  sweet  reason,  and  confound 
All  order  but  their  blood. 

Par.  You  read  them  well ; 

Good  reason  have  you  to  put  reason  to  't 
And  measure  them  by  the  just  line  of  it. 

La  N.   But  that  such  sins  should  plague  the  feverish 

time 

I  do  not  wonder  far ;  all  things  are  grown 
Into  a  rankness. 

Par.  Still  I  say,  a  woman 

To  do  such  bitter  deeds  — 

Sou.  That 's  where  it  sticks. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  107 

Par.   Put  on  such  iron  means  — 

Sou.  Ay,  that,  sir,  that. 

Par.   So  rip  the  garments  of  their  temperance 
And  keep  no  modest  thing  about  their  face 
To  hide  the  sin  thereon  :  pluck  off  the  shows 
That  did  o'erblanch  a  little  — 

Sou.  Ay,  keep  there. 

La  N.   But,  gentlemen,  what  upshot  hear  you  of? 

Par.  The  queen  hath  sent  her  under  heavy  guard 
To  bide  some  subtler  edge  of  evidence 
Here  in  her  chamber. 

Sou.  Why  not  in  prison  ? 

Look  you,  they  '11  let  her  slip  ;  I  say  they  will. 

Par.   But  hear  you,  sir  ;  I  did  not  blame  the  queen  — 

Sou.   It  doth  outgrow  the  height  and  top  of  shame 
That  she  should  pass  untaxed. 

Par.  She  will  not  pass. 

Sou.  Take  note,  sir,  there  is  composition  in  't ; 
They  would  not  put  imprisonment  on  her ; 
Why  this  is  rank  :  I  tell  you  this  is  rank. 

Par.  God's  pity  !  what  a  perfect  wasp  are  you  ! 
Why,  say  she  scapes  —  as  by  my  faith  I  see 
No  such  keen  reason  why  she  should  not  scape, 
The  matter  being  so  bare  and  thin  in  proof 
As  it  appears  by  this  — 

La  N.  Yea,  so  I  say ; 

If  she  be  manifest  a  murderess  — 

Sou.  If! 


io8s  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

What  "  if"  will  serve  ?  show  me  the  room  for  "  if" ; 

I  read  no  reason  on  the  face  of  "  if." 

If  she  be  not,  what  leans  our  faith  upon  ? 

If  she  be  pure  or  only  possible 

For  judgment  to  wash  clear,  —  if  she  be  not 

Evident  in  guilt  beyond  all  evidence,  — 

The  perfect  map  where  such  red  lines  are  drawn 

As  set  down  murder,  —  if  she  be  less  one  whit 

I  '11  take  her  sin  upon  myself  and  turn 

Her  warrant. 

Par.  Take  a  woman's  sin  on  you  ? 

O,  while  you  live,  lay_no  such  weight  on  faith, 
'T  will  break  her  back.     Sir,  as  you  love  me,  do  not ; 
I  would  not  have  you  take  such  charge  upon  you. 

Sou.  I  say  I  will  not ;  for  I  can  approve 
Her  very  guiltiness. 

Par.  Nay,  that  clears  all. 

But  it  is  strange  that  one  so  well  reputed, 
So  perfect  in  all  gentle  ways  of  time 
That  take  men's  eyes  —  in  whom  the  slips  she  had 
Were  her  more  grace  and  did  increase  report 
To  do  her  good  —  who  might  excuse  all  blame 
That  the  tongued  story  of  this  time  could  lay 
On  her  most  sweet  account,  —  that  such  a  lady 
Should  wreak  herself  so  bloodily  for  words 
Upon  a  shallow  and  sick-witted  fool. 
Why,  what  is  she  the  better,  he  removed  ? 
Or  how  doth  he  impair  her,  being  alive  ? 
There  's  matter  in  't  we  know  not  of. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  109 

Sou.  Yea,  why  ? 

For  that  you  speak  of  her  repute,  my  lord, 
I  am  not  perfect  in  a  girl's  repute  ; 
It  may  be  other  than  I  think  of  it; 
But  in  this  poor  conjectural  mind  of  mine 
I  cannot  see  how  to  live  large  and  loose 
Doth  put  a  sounder  nerve  into  repute 
Than  honest  women  have.     What  we  did  know  of  her, 
You,  I,  and  all  men  — 

Par.  Nay,  you  tax  her  far. 

Sou.   I  mean,  we  know  her  commerce  with  the  king  ; 
Ha  ?  did  we  not  ? 

Par.  Yea,  that  was  broad  enough. 

Sou.   Why,  well  then,  how  doth  she  make  up  repute, 
Being  patched  so  palpably  ?     Here  comes  the  queen. 

Enter  the  King,  the  Queen-Mother,  and  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

Ch.   It  may  be  so. 

Ca.  I  would  it  had  less  face. 

If  likelihood  could  better  speak  of  her, 
I  should  be  glad  to  help  it. 

Sou.  Marked  you  this  ? 

Ca'  But  shame  can  hide  no  shame  so  manifest ; 
It  must  all  out. 

Ch.  I  do  not  say  it  must. 

Ca.  Why,  it  was  open,  proof  doth  handle  it ; 
The  poor  brain-bitten  railer  chid  at  her, 
Scoffed  in  lewd  words,  made  speech  insufferable 


i  io  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Of  any  temperate  ear ;  no  colder  cheek 

But  would  have  burnt  at  him  ;  myself  was  angered, 

Could  not  wear  patience  through  ;  and  she  being  quick, 

Tendering  her  state  as  women  do,  too  slight 

To  push  her  reason  past  her  anger's  bound  — 

Sou.   Did  you  note  that  ?  she  speaks  my  proper  way. 

Ca.   She  being  such  doth  with  my  hands  resolve 
To  whip  him  out  of  life ;  and  in  this  humor  — 

Ch.  Soft  now;    I  must  get  proof;   what  makes  your 

highness 
In  such  a  matter  ? 

Ca.  I  gave  her  glove  to  him. 

Ch.  O,  this  is  well ;  and  yet  she  murdered  him  ? 

Par.  What  says  your  judgment  to  't?   have  you  no 
quirk  ?    (Aside.} 

Ca.  She  gave  it  me  ;  I  had  the  glove  of  her. 

Par.   Does  the  wind  blow  that  side  ? 

Sou.  Notice  the  king ;  he  chafes. 

[Exeunt  PARDAILLAN,  SOUBISE,  and  LA  NOUE. 

Ch.   Our  sister  says  she  did  outswear  you  all 
She  never  saw  the  glove. 

Ca.  Put  her  to  proof; 

Let  her  outbrag  by  evidence  evidence, 
And  proof  unseat  by  proof. 

Ch.  Call  her  to  me. 

Ca.  That  were  unfit ;  you  shall  not  see  her. 

Ch.  Shall  not ! 

Who  puts  the  "  shall  not "  on  me  ?  is  it  you  ? 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  in 

<,£.   Not  I,  but  absolute  need  and  present  law; 
She  is  not  well ;  and  till  she  be  made  whole 
There  shall  no  trial  pass  upon  her  proof; 
She  shall  have  justice  ;  it  may  be  she  is  clear, 
And  this  large  outward  likelihood  may  lie  ; 
Then  she  were  sharply  wronged  ;  and  in  that  fear 
And  also  for  dear  love  I  bear  to  her 
I  have  removed  her  with  no  care  but  mine 
To  a  more  quiet  room ;  where  till  more  surety 
She  doth  abide  in  an  unwounded  peace, 
Having  most  tender  guard. 

Ch.  I  '11  write  her  comfort ; 

For  I  do  know  she  has  much  wrong  in  this. 

Ca.   I  will  commend  you  verbally  to  her ; 
The  other  were  some  scandal. 

Ch.  Pray  you,  do  ; 

Look  you  speak  gently ;  I  would  not  have  you  loud, 
For  she  will  weep  all  pity  into  you 
To  see  her  cheek  so  marred.     Look  you  say  well ; 
Say  I  do  nothing  fear  but  she  is  wronged, 
And  will  do  right ;  yea,  though  I  loved  her  not 
(As  truly  I  am  not  so  hard  in  love 
But  I  can  see  her  fault,  which  is  much  pity,  — 
A  very  talking  error  in  weak  tongues) 
I  would  not  have  her  wronged.     Look  you  say  that. 

Ca.   I  will  say  anything. 

Ch.  Now,  my  fair  lord, 

Have  I  done  well  ? 


112  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

La  R.  Most  justly  and  most  well. 

Ch.  You  would  not  else,  were  you  a  king  of  mine  ? 

La  R.   I  would  do  this,  even  merely  as  you  do. 

Ch.  What  say  you  to  this  evidence  ? 

La  R.  That  it  doth 

Amaze  my  sense  of  what  is  proven  ;  for, 
If  there  be  witness  in  the  touch  and  grasp 
Of  things  so  palpable,  and  naked  likelihood 
Outpoises  all  thin  guess  and  accident, 
I  must  believe  what  makes  belief  rebel 
And  turn  a  proclaimed  liar.     For  I  am  sure 
That  she  whose  mouth  this  proof  doth  dwell  upon, 
I  mean  the  virtuous  damozel  Yolande, 
Is  past  the  tax  of  lying ;  she  is  as  pure 
As  truth  desires  a  man. 

Ch.  It  is  most  strange ; 

Let 's  find  some  smoother  talk.     Have  you  not  seen 
My  book  of  deer,  what  seasons  and  what  ways 
To  take  them  in  ?     I  finished  it  last  night. 

La  R.   I  have  not  seen  it. 

Ch.  Only  this  throws  me  out ; 

(The  verses,  Peter  Ronsard  made  them  rhyme) 
I  '11  show  you  where  ;  come,  you  shall  get  me  through  ; 
You  are  perfect  at  such  points. 

La  R.  Your  praise  outruns  me. 

Ch  No,  not  a  whit ;  you  are  perfect  in  them ;  come. 

[Exeunt  King  and  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

Ca.  This  is  the  proper  cooling  of  hot  blood  ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  113 

Now  is  she  lost  in  him.     Say,  she  doth  live  ;  to  put 

Earth  in  her  lips  and  dusty  obstacle 

May  not  be  worth  my  pains.    She  cannot  thwart  me  either; 

For  say  I  did  enfranchise  her  to-night, 

Give  air  and  breath  to  her  loud'st  speech,  she  could  not 

Wrench  one  man's  faith  awry.     Yet  since  I  know 

Security  doth  overlean  itself 

And  bruise  its  proper  side,  I  will  not  do  't. 

Or  say  I  win  her  back ;  and  being  so  won, 

I  may  find  serviceable  times  for  her 

To  spy  upon  king  fool ;  this  coolness  thawed 

Would  make  a  heat  indeed.     There  's  use  for  her 

And  room  withal ;  if  she  leave  tenderness 

And  this  girl's  habit  of  a  changing  blood, 

I  can  as  well  unload  her  of  this  weight 

As  I  did  lay  it  on  ;  which  being  kept  up 

May  make  her  life  bend  under  it,  and  crack 

The  sensible  springs  of  motion.     I  will  put  proof  to  it ;. 

Favor  of  love,  promise  and  sweet  regard, 

Large  habit,  and  the  royal  use  of  time, 

May  her  slight  fear  as  potently  outpoise 

As  wisdom  doth,  weighed  in  a  steadier  brain.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.    Denises  Apartment  in  the  same. 

Enter  DENISE  and  Attendant 
Att.  How  do  you  now  ? 

Den.  Well ;  I  do  ever  well  ; 

It  comes  not  new  to  me,  this  well-doing. 


114  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  sleep  as  women  do  that  feed  well,  I  feed 

As  those  who  wear  the  gold  of  doing  well. 

What  pricks  you  so  to  ask  ?    Why,  this  is  quaint, 

I  cannot  brace  my  body  like  a  maid's, 

Cannot  plait  up  my  hair,  gather  a  pin, 

But  you  must  catch  me  with  "  How  do  you  it  ? " 

Att.   I  made  but  question  of  that  mood  you  had 
Some  three  hours  back,  when  you  fell  pale  and  wept, 
Saying  fever  clenched  you  fast  and  you  would  die  ; 
That  mood  forgets  you. 

Den.  Not  a  whit ;  you  slip 

Strangely  between  conjectures  of  two  sides, 
The  white  and  black  side.  I  am  very  well. 
They  say  "  do  well "  if  one  does  virtuously ; 
May  I  not  say  so  ? 

Att.  Doubtless  you  may  well. 

Den.  Yea,  the  word  "  well "  is  tied  upon  your  tongue. 
Try  now  some  new  word,  prithee  some  fair  phrase, 
Rounder  i'  the  mouth  than  "well"  ;  I  hate  this  "  well "  ; 
I  pray  you  learn  some  lesson  of  a  jay 
To  use  new  words.     I  will  provide  me  one 
That  shall  say  nothing  all  day  through  but  "  ill," 
And  "  ill "  again.    I  '11  have  a  clock  tick  "  well " 
And  hang  it  by  your  bed  to  wake  you  mad 
Because  you  chatter  me  half  sick  with  "  well." 

Att.   I  will  say  nothing  lest  you  carp  at  me, 
Planting  offence  in  most  pure  sentences  j 
Mistake  falls  easy. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  ,     115 

Den.  Truly  it  doth  fall. 

All  matters  fall  out  somehow  in  God's  work, 
And  round  the  squared  edges  of  them  flat. 
But  I  fall  wrong,  slip  someway  short  of  heaven, 
And  earth  fails  too,  and  leaves  me  dismal  hell, 
Naked  as  brown  feet  of  unburied  men. 
Think  you  they  hold  mere  talk  like  ours  in  hell  ? 
Go  up  and  down  with  wretched  shoulders  stooped 
And  wried  backs  under  the  strong  burdens  bruised 
And  thwarted  bodies  without  pleasant  breath  ? 

Att.  I  do  conceive  it  as  clean  fire  that  burns 
And  makes  a  gray  speck  of  the  gracious  corn  ; 
God  keep  us  that  we  burn  not  in  such  wise. 

Deti.   That  is  a  prayer,  and  prayers  are  sweet.    But  then 
We  '11  have  no  praying ;  only  such  as  this,  — 
I  prithee  set  a  finger  to  my  load, 
Help  me  from  fainting ;  take  my  knife  and  smite 
And  put  the  blood  to  cool  upon  my  mouth. 
Such  dull  work  too  as  carls  get  sickened  with 
And  turn  to  die  into  the  black  rank  straw, 
We  shall  set  hands  to  ;  all  fair  lords  and  knights, 
Great  kings  with  gold  work  wrought  into  their  hair, 
Strong  men  of  price  and  such  as  play  or  sing, 
Delicate  ladies  with  well-shodden  feet, 
Tall  queens  in  silk  wear  and  all  royal  things, 
Yea,  priests  of  noble  scarlet  and  chaste  mark, 
All  shall  God  set  awork.     Peradventure  too 
When  our  arms  loosen  in  the  elbow-joints 


n 6  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

With  the  strong  rage  and  violent  use  of  toil, 
He  may  send  patient  breath  to  ease  our  lips 
And  heal  us  for  a  little  weeping-space, 
But  then  in  talking  each  with  each  will  grow 
Worse  shame  and  wholly  fashioned  wretchedness, 
And  either  will  go  back  to  mere  short  moans 
And  the  hard  pulse  of  his  outlabored  hour 
Rather  than  talk.    We  shall  lie  down  and  curse 
Stupidly  under  breath,  like  herdsmen  ;  turn 
And  hide  and  cover  from  all  witness  up, 
Each  his  own  loathing  and  particular  sore  ; 
Sit  with  chins  fallen  and  lank  feet  asquat, 
Letting  the  dismal  head  work  its  own  way, 
Till  the  new  stripe  shall  pluck  us  up  to  task, 
Crossing  with  cruelties  our  own  bad  will, 
Crowning  our  worst  with  some  completed  bad 
Too  ill  to  face.     Ay,  this  should  be  their  way ; 
For  fire  and  all  tormented  things  of  earth 
Are  parcels  of  good  life,  have  use  and  will, 
Learn  worthiest  office  and  supply  brave  wants  ; 
And  not  the  things  that  burn  up  clean  make  hell, 
Not  pain,  hate,  evil,  actual  shame  or  sense, 
But  just  the  lewd  obedience,  the  dead  work, 
The  beaten  service  of  a  barren  wage 
That  gets  no  reaping. 

Att.   I  cannot  taste  the  purpose  of  your  speech. 
Pray  you  lie  down. 

Den.  I  will  not.    Well  it  were 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  117 

To  set  our  upper  lives  on  some  such  guise 

And  have  a  perfect  record  when  one  dies 

How  things  shall  be  thereafter.     A  knowledge  armed 

Of  the  most  sharp  and  outermost  event 

Is  half  a  comfort.     I  do  think  for  one 

That  God  will  set  me  into  certain  hell, 

Pick  me  to  burn  forth  of  his  yellow  spears 

Like  any  tare  as  rank.     Also  I  doubt 

There  shall  be  some  I  had  to  do  withal 

Packed  in  the  same  red  sheaf.     How  will  each  look, 

Tavannes,  no  leaner  than  the  hound  he  was, 

Or  Guise  beard-singed  to  the  roots  ?  the  queen-mother 

Tied  by  the  hair  to  —  I  get  idle  now. 

A  grave  thing  is  it  to  feel  sure  of  hell, 

But  who  should  fear  it  if  I  slip  the  chance 

And  make  some  holy  blunder  in  my  end, 

Translating  sin  by  penitence  ?     For  none 

Sinned  ever  yet  my  way ;  treason  and  lust 

Sick  apes,  red  murder  a  familiar  fool, 

To  this  new  trick  set  by  them,  will  be  shamed 

In  me  forever;  yea,  contempt  of  men 

Shall  put  them  out  of  office.     He  that  lusts, 

Envies,  or  stabs,  shall  merely  virtuous  be, 

And  the  lank  liar  fingering  at  your  throat 

A  friend  right  honest.    That  roadway  villain's  knife 

That  feels  for  gold  i'  the  womb,  shall  be  not  hated  ; 

And  the  cold  thief  who  spills  a  popular  breath 

Find  grace  o'  the  gallows  ;  why  do  men  hang  poor  knaves, 


ii8  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Cut  throats  while  mine  goes  smooth  ?     Now  I  think  on 't, 
I  will  put  condemnation  to  their  act 
By  mine  own  will  and  work.     I  pray  you  kill  me, 
I  will  not  hurt  you. 

Att.  Alas,  she  is  mad.     Dear  lady  — 

Den.   Yea,  dear ;  I  shall  be  dear  some  three  days  hence, 
And  paid  full  price.     Dost  thou  not  think  I  am  mad  ? 
I  am  not ;  they  would  fain  have  lied  me  mad, 
Burnt  up  my  brain  and  strung  my  sense  awry, 
In  so  vile  space  imprisoning  my  wants 
I  can  help  nothing.     Here  sit  I  now,  beast-like, 
Loathsomely  silenced  :  who,  if  I-i^  '^  t°ngue 
Wherewith  hard  winter  warns  the  unblanched  sea, 
Would  even  outspeak  the  winds  with  large  report, 
Proclaming  peril.     But  being  this  I  am 
I  get  no  help  at  all.     One  maimed  and  dumb 
That  sees  his  house  burn,  such  am  I.     My  God ! 
Were  it  not  sweeter  to  be  finished  well 
Than  still  hold  play  with  hangman  anger  ? 

Enter  the  Queen-Mother. 

Ca.  Leave  us,  girl.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Nay,  sit ;  this  reverence  hath  no  seed  in  you ; 
Sit  still. 

Den.      Madam  — 

Ca.  Good  lady,  will  you  sit  ? 

Den.   So  you  be  come  to  bind  more  shame  on  me, 
I  can  well  bear  more  shame. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  119 

Ca.  You  are  still  foolish  ; 

How  have  I  set  this  anger  in  your  face  ? 
I  make  no  parcel  of  these  tears  of  yours  ; 
No  word  that  gets  upon  your  lips  to  weep 
Have  I  given  use  for. 

Den.  Ay,  no  use  you  say  ? 

But  I  dream  not  that  hold  this  hand  in  that, 
But  I  dream  not  that  take  your  eyes  with  mine  ; 
But  I  dream  not  I  am  that  very  thing 
That  as  a  taint  inside  the  imperilled  flesh 
Have  made  corruption  of  the  king's  close  will, 
Put  scarlet  treason  on  his  purpose,  marred 
The  face  of  confidence,  plucked  words  from  trust, 
Taught  murder  to  walk  smooth  and  set  his  feet 
Upon  the  ways  of  faith  ;  I  am  that  thing, 
I  would  it  were  some  other. 

Ca.  Have  you  yet  done  ? 

Den.  Yea,  I  have  done  all  this. 

tTtf.  I  do  believe  you ; 

And  though  your  thoughts  ungently  look  my  way, 
I  have  such  sorrow  for  you  sown  at  heart 
As  you  should  reap  a  liberal  help  thereof 
Would  you  but  pay  thin  thanks. 

Den.  No,  I  '11  no  thanks  ; 

Yea,  though  I  die,  I  will  not  thank  you ;  no ; 
For  I  can  hold  my  breath  into  my  lip, 
Or  twist  my  hair  to  choke  my  throat  upon, 
Or  thrust  a  weak  way  thus  to  my  rent  heart 


120  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Even  with  these  bare  and  feeble  fingers  here, 
Making  each  nail  a  knife  ;  look  you,  I  '11  do  't. 

Ca.   You  talk  too  wide ;  I  came  to  do  you  good. 

Den.   That  were  good  news  indeed ;  things  new,  being 

good, 

Come  keener  to  put  relish  in  the  lip  ; 
I  pray  you  let  me  see  this  good  i'  the  face, 
Look  in  its  eyes  to  find  dead  colors  out, 
For  deadly  matters  make  up  good  for  me. 

Ca.   Nay,  you  shall  find  my  favor  large  as  love  ; 
I  make  no  talk  of  gold,  no  costly  words, 
No  promise,  but  this  merely  will  I  say, 
You  holding  by  me  grapple  to  a  hold 
Full  of  all  gracious  office  and  such  wealth 
As  love  doth  use  for  surety ;  such  good  riches 
As  on  these  latter  lips  of  womanhood 
Are  sweet  as  early  kisses  of  a  mouth 
Scented  like  honey.    Keep  but  fast  my  side, 
No  time  shall  hew  the  planted  root  away 
That  faith  of  your  dear  service  sets  in  me, 
Nor  violence  of  mistempered  accident 
Cleave  it  across. 

Den.  I  would  I  were  clear  of  you. 

What  would  you  get  ?    You  are  a  great  queen,  grave  soul, 
Crown-shaped  i'  the  head  ;  your  work  is  wonderful 
And  stoops  men  to  you  by  the  neck,  but  I 
Can  scantly  read  it  out.     I  know  just  this,  — 
Take  you  this  patience  from  my  wretched  lips, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  121 

Pluck  off  this  evidence  of  the  bolted  steel, 

Make  wide  the  passage  of  my  chambered  feet 

And  I  will  take  a  witness  in  my  mouth 

To  set  the  cries  of  all  the  world  on  you 

And  break  my  shame  to  lead  your  neck  with  half 

Like  a  thief's  neck. 

Ca.  You  are  slower  than  weighed  lead 

To  use  my  speech  aright.     But  though  you  be 
Twice  dull  or  thrice,  and  looser  of  your  lip 
Than  that  swift  breath  that  outwings  rumor,  yet 
No  babble  slipt  upon  my  purposes 
Could  manage  me  a  peril,  no  tongue's  trip 
Cross  me  between.     Who  puts  belief  to  speech 
Grown  from  some  theft,  that  stains  me  with  report 
From  mine  own  lips  caught  like  infection  ?     Look, 
Though  you  could  preach  my  least  word  spoken  out 
To  the  square  in  Paris  where  noise  thickens  most, 
It  hurts  me  nothing.     'T  is  not  that  populous  tongue 
That  savors  insolence  and  raw  distaste 
Can  riot  out  my  \rill.     Nay,  keep  your  cheeks  : 
I  would  not  kill  the  color  past  all  help, 
For  I  have  care  of  you  ;  and  liberal  fruit 
Shall  you  reap  of  it,  and  eat  quiet  bread 
When  white  want  shrinks  the  rest. 

Den.  I  will  not  do  it. 

Nay,  though  I  were  your  foolish  workwoman, 
There  is  no  room  for  good  to  do  me  good ; 
That  blessed  place  wherein  love  kissed  me  first 

6 


122  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Is  now  waxed  bare  enough.     I  might  ask  alms 
Of  meanest  men,  being  by  mine  own  repute 
Made  less  than  time  makes  them ;  I  am  not  good  nor  fair, 
For  the  good  made  on  me  by  love  is  gone, 
And  that  affection  of  the  flattered  blood 
Which  fills  this  holy  raiment  of  the  soul 
With  inwrought  shapeliness  and  outside  rose 
Keeps  now  no  tide  in  me  ;  the  unpulsed  sense 
Hath  like  a  water  settled  and  gets  flat 
As  dead  sands  be  at  utmost  ebb  that  drink 
The  drained  salt  o'  the  sea.     Nay,  to  talk  thus 
Is  foolish  as  large  words  let  out  in  drink ; 
Therefore  I  am  not  wise  ;  what  would  you  have  of  me  ? 
»    Cft.   Nay,  nothing  but  your  peace,  which  I  '11  assure 
Beyond  large  time's  assault.     Yet  I  '11  do  something  with 

you, 

Put  sudden  bitter  in  your  sweet  of  lips, 
A  knife's  edge  next  your  throat,  that  when  you  drink 
Shall  spill  out  wine  i'  the  blood,  —  something  like  this ; 
Feed  you  upon  the  doubt,  and  gnash  aud  grieve, 
Feeling  so  trapped.    You  '11  show  fierce  teeth  at  me, 
Take  threats  of  me  into  your  milky  mouth  ? 
You  '11  maim  my  ruined  patience,  put  me  out 
Of  sober  words  and  use  of  gravities  ? 

Den.  Yea,  I  can  read  you  are  full-tempered  now ; 
But  your  sharp  humors  come  not  in  my  fear. 

Ca.  Yea  so  ?  high-tempered  said  she  ?  yea,  true,  true,  — 
I  'm  angered,  —  give  me  water  to  cool  out 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

This  o'er-tongued  fever  of  intemperance. 
Bid  one  come  in  and  see  how  wroth  I  am ; 
Am  I  not  angered  now  ?  see  you,  —  and  you,  — 
Do  not  I  chafe  and  froth  the  snaffle  white 
With  the  anger  in  my  mouth  ?  see,  do  I  not  ? 
—  Thou  hast  the  tender  impotence  of  talk 
That  men  teach  daws  ;  a  pitiful  thing,  —  in  sooth 
I  am  not  so  chafed  ;  I  have  something  in  my  will 
That  makes  me  chide  at  thee,  my  plaything ;  look, 
I  do  half  choose  to  chide  at  it,  sweet  wretch, 
It  almost  chafes  me  such  a  daw  should  live. 

Den.   It  chafes  me  too ;  I  will  not  be  forgiven ; 
If  shame  go  smooth  and  blood  so  supple  it, 
Kingdoms  will  turn  from  the  grave  word  of  man 
To  side  with  hoofed  herds  :  I  were  best  die 
And  get  no  grace  of  God. 

Ca.  "  No  grace  "  it  said  ? 

Dost  thou  make  such  a  gracious  dunce  of  God 
To  look  thee  out  in  the  time's  jarring  sum, 
Choose  thy  room  forth  and  hearken  after  thee 
To  find  thee  place  and  surety  and  eased  breath  ? 
God  's  no  such  bat  to  be  at  pains  for  this. 
Pray  now,  go  pray  ;  speak  some  wise  word  or  two 
To  pluck  his  mercies  back  your  way.     God's  name ! 
It  marvels  me  how  any  fool  i'  the  flesh 
Must  needs  be  sure  of  some  fore-facing  help 
To  make  him  fragrant  means  for  living  well, 
Some  blind  God's  favor  bound  across  his  head 


124  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

To  stamp  him  safe  i'  the  world's  imperilling. 
Pardon  thy  sin  ?  who  blabs  thy  pretty  slips 
I'  the  ear  of  his  broad  knowledge,  scores  thy  stains, 
Makes  him  partaker  of  all  times  and  rooms 
Where  thou  hast  made  shuddering  occasions 
To  try  Eve's  huskless  apple  with  thy  teeth  ? 
Doth  such  care  dwell  on  thy  breath's  lean  reserves, 
Thy  little  touches  and  red  points  of  shame  ? 
I  tell  thee,  God  is  wise  and  thou  twice  fool, 
That  wouldst  have  God  con  thee  by  rote,  and  lay 
This  charge  on  thee,  shift  off  that  other  charge, 
And  mete  thine  inward  inches  out  by  rule 
That  hath  the  measure  of  sphered  worlds  in  it 
And  limit  of  great  stars.     Wilt  thou  serve  yet  ? 

Den.   Not  you  herein  at  all ;  though  you  spake  right. 
As  it  may  be  this  speech  does  call  truth  kin, 
I  would  not  sin  beyond  my  ancient  way 
And  couple  with  new  shame. 

Ca.  This  is  your  last ; 

For  the  sad  fruit  that  burgeons  out  of  this 
Take  your  own  blame,  for  I  will  none.  —  You,  there, 
You  that  make  under  uses  of  the  door, 
Leave  off  your  ear-work  and  come  in ;  nay,  come  ; 

Enter  YOLANDE. 

Here  's  use  for  you  ;  look  well  upon  this  girl, 
Count  well  the  tender  feet  that  make  her  flesh 
And  her  soft  inches  up  ;  nay,  view  them  close  ; 
For  each  poor  part  and  specialty  of  her 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER,  125 

You  hold  sharp  count  to  me  ;  I  '11  have  you  wise  ; 
You  that  are  portress  shall  be  jailer  —  you, 
Mark  me,  just  you  — s  I  would  not  have  you  slip  ; 
Come  not  into  my  danger  ;  but  keep  safe, 
I  do  you  good  indeed. 

Vol.  I  will  do  truly. 

Ca.    Farewell,   sweet    friend ;    (to  Denise)    I   am  right 

grieved  that  you 

Wiy  mix  my  love  with  your  impatience. 
Though  I  more  thinly  fare  in  your  esteem, 
Fare  you  yet  well  for  mine,  and  think  of  me 
More  graciously  than  thus  ;  so  have  you  peace 
As  I  do  wish  you  happily  to  have. 
God  give  you  sleep.  —  Look  heedfully  to  her 
As  you  would  have  me  prosperous  to  you.  \Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  III.     The  Marshal's  House. 
Enter  two  Captains. 

1  Cap.   May  this  be  true  that  we  are  bidden  so  ? 

2  Cap.    I  think  it  is. 

I  Cap.  Did  the  king  speak  with  you  ? 

I  Cap.   No,  the  lord  marshal. 

1  Cap.  He  is  hot  on  this ; 
But  did  he  tell  you  to  be  forth  to-night  ? 

2  Cap.   Before  the  chime  of  twelve. 

i  Cap.  Why  then  we  have 

A  broken  four  hours'  work  upon  us  yet 


126  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Between  this  time  and  that  most  bloody  one. 
There  is  a  yellow  point  upon  the  sky 
Where  the  last  upper  sun  burns  sidefrays  out, 
Scoring  the  west  beneath. 

2  Cap.  I  see  the  mark : 

It  shines  against  the  Louvre  ;  it  is  nigh  gone. 

1  Cap.    Yea,  the  strong  sun  grows  sick ;   but  not  to 

death.  ,,. 

Which  side  have  you  to  take  ? 

2  Cap.  •       The  south  side,  I. 

1  Cap.   I  to  the  west.    Would  this  were  really  through. 

2  Cap.  Who  gave  you  news  o'  the  office  ? 

1  Cap.  Maurevel. 

2  Cap.   O,  he  that  hurt  the  admiral  some  days  back  ? 
That  plague-botch  of  the  Guisards  ? 

1  Cap.  Yea,  the  same  : 
I  had  a  mind  to  strike  him  in  the  mouth. 

2  Cap.  Why  had  you  so  ?  you  have  the  better  place. 

1  Cap.   O,  sir,  in  such  hard  matters  he  does  best 
Who  does  not  most.     I  had  rather  be  a  dog, 

One  half  unleashed  to  feed  on  bitten  orts 
Than  have  his  post  herein. 

2  Cap.  Whose  ?   Maurevel's  ? 

1  Cap.   Even  his  ;  for  he  has  carved  him  a  broad  piece 
Out  of  the  body  of  this  wounded  town. 

2  Cap.  What,  does  the  work  so  startle  you  ?  for  me, 
I  hold  it  light  as  kissing  a  girl's  head. 

i  Cap.   If  they  should  face  us,  well ;  but  to  put  knives 
Into  their  peaceable  and  sleeping  beds  — 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  127 

2  Cap.  You  talk  too  like  a  fool.     I  loathe  so  far 
Their  slow  lank  ways  of  envious  gravity, 
Their  sparing  pride  and  lavish  modesty, 
Cunning  so  tempered  with  hot  insolence 
As  in  that  Pardaillan  —  in  him  or  him  — 
I  say -I  do  abhor  them,  and  in  my  soul 
I  think  there  's  no  priest  half  so  glad  as  I 
To  rid  them  out  of  wrong  doing.    We  are 
Most  kind  to  them  ;  for  give  their  sin  more  space, 
Each  year  should  heap  up  hell  upon  their  backs 
And  leave  them  hotter ;  whereas  we  rid  them  now 
And  they  just  die  half-damned. 

1  Cap.  You  are  merciful. 

2  Cap.   I  would  be  so  ;  for  him  whose  spleen  is  thick, 
Made  bitter  and  side-clogged  with  cruel  use, 

I  hate  as  much  as  these. 

1  Cap.  The  marshal  tarries ; 
I  doubt  there  will  be  nothing  done. 

2  Cap.  You  doubt  ? 
Say  you  desire  it ;  if  you  pray  for  it, 

Shame  not  to  answer  your  own  hope. 

1  Cap.  I  do  not ; 
I  should  be  glad  if  all  went  out  in  speech 

And  never  smutched  our  hands  with  smoke  thereof. 

2  Cap.  This  is  your  poor  and  barren  piety 
That  mercy  calls  offence,  and  law  doth  put 
Rebuke  upon.     I  do  not  praise  it  in  you. 

i  Cap.   Do  you  mislike  it  ? 


128  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

2  Cap.  If  I  should  say  I  did  — 

1  Cap.   What  then  ? 

2  Cap.  I  did  you  nothing  less  than  right. 

1  Cap.   You  will  not  say  so. 

2  Cap.  By  your  head,  I  do  ; 
I  will  and  do. 

1  Cap.  This  will  take  time  to  mend. 

2  Cap.   Mend  it  your  way ;  take  time  to  patch  it  with  ; 
My  hand  shall  not  be  slack.     Here  comes  the  marshal. 

Enter  TAVANNES. 

Tav.   Now,  sirs,  how  are  your  men  disposed  ?  have  you 
Had  pains  with  them  ? 

1  Cap.  Mine  gave  no  pains  at  all. 
Tav.  Why,  well ;  I  would  the  temper  of  such  men 

Were  made  the  habit  of  all  France.     Sir,  yours  ? 

2  Cap.   I  may  say  better  of  them  ;  I  could  not 
So  eagerly  give  tongue  to  my  desire 

But  they  did  grasp  it  first ;  such  emulous  haste 
To  jostle  speech  aside  with  the  push  of  act 
I  have  not  known. 

Tav.  Good ;  they  do  hunger,  then  ? 

2  Cap.   Sir,  most  impatiently. 

Tav.  Their  galls  are  hot  ? 

2  Cap.   Enough  to  burn  out  patience  from  the  world. 

Tav.   Such  I  would  have ;  good  dogs,  keen  in  the  feet, 
Swoln  in  the  spleens  of  them  ;  't  is  very  good. 
Your  presence  flags,  sir. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  129 

i  Cap.  Mine,  my  lord  ? 

Tav.  Ay,  sir. 

You  have  the  gait  of  an  unmaidened  girl 
That  carries  violence  in  her  girdle.     Humph ! 
I  do  not  relish  it. 

I  Cap.  My  lord  — 

Tav.  Ay,  what  ? 

Speak  your  own  way ;  make  answer ;  nay,  be  swift. 

I  Cap.   My  lord,  you  have  not  known  me  blink  or  blench 
In  the  red  face  of  death  ;  no  peril  hath 
Put  fear  upon  my  flesh,  altered  the  heat 
That  colors  on  my  cheek  the  common  blood 
To  a  dead  sickness  or  a  bruise  of  white  ; 
Nor  doth  it  now. 

Tav.  No,  doth  not  ?  are  you  sure  ? 

i  Cap.   You  do  not  think  so. 

Tav.  Nay,  there 's  no  peril  in  't. 

But  you  had  more  ;  make  out  the  worst ;  get  on. 

1  Cap.   Truly  I  have  a  motion  in  my  blood 
Forbidding  such  a  matter  to  receive 
Smooth  entertainment  there  ;  I  would  be  fain 
To  shift  the  service  off;  my  fellow  here 
Knows  I  regard  it  something  loathfully. 

Tav.   Ay,  do  you,  sir  ? 

2  Cap.  Indeed  he  said  so. 

Tav.  Said  ? 

2  Cap.  But  I  do  know  him  for  a  noble  man 
That  would  acknowledge  all  things  honorably, 


130  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Commune  with  no  base  words,  nor  wear  such  office 
As  cowards  do  ;  I  must  report  him  such. 

Tav    You  must !     I  pray  show  me  what  humor  then 
Crosses  him  thus  at  point. 

2  Cap.  I  will  not  think. 

Tav.   Sir,  you  that  have  such  tender  make  at  heart, 
That  wear  a  woman  in  your  blood,  and  put 
Your  mother  on  your  cheeks,  —  you  that  are  pure, 
That  will  not  fail,  —  you  piece  of  dainty  talk,  — 

» 

Pluck  me  this  halting  passion  from  your  heart, 
Or  death  shall  nail  it  there. 

i  Cap.  I  do  not  fear  you,  sir. 

Tav.   Observe  me,  sir ;  I  do  not  use  to  threat ; 
Either  take  up  your  office  for  this  time 
And  use  it  honorably,  or  I  will  leave  you 
No  place  at  all.    What  sort  of  fool  are  you 
To  start  at  such  a  piece  of  lawful  work 
As  is  the  manage  of  more  noble  hands 
Than  are  familiar  with  your  beard  ?    You  are 
Too  gross  a  fool. 

1  Cap.  My  lord,  you  wrong  me  much. 

2  Cap.   Sir,  you  push  far ;  he  is  a  gentleman. 

Tav.   The  Devil  shall  make  a  better  of  strawn  dung ; 
I  do  proclaim  him  for  a  thief,  a  coward, 
A  common  beggar  of  safe  corner-holes, 
A  chamber  hireling  to  wash  pots  —  Begone, 
I  will  not  bear  such  knaves.     Take  you  his  place. 
Go,  go,  eat  scraps. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  131 

I  Cap.  Sir,  you  shall  do  me  right. 

Tav.   I  say  thou  art  a  knave,  a  side-stair  thief,  — 
God's  precious  body  !     I  am  sick  with  anger 
That  such  a  pad  of  slack  worm-eaten  silk 
Should  wear  the  name  of  any  soldiership. 
Give  up  thine  office. 

1  Cap.  You  do  yourself  much  shame.  [Exit. 
Tav.    Fie  on  him,  rag  !  frayed  velvet  face  !     I  'd  beat 

him 

But  for  pure  shame.     So,  is  he  gone  ?     Make  after 
And  push  him  out  at  door.     Take  you  his  place. 
Attend  me  presently. 

2  Cap.  My  lord,  I  shall.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     The  Louvre. 

The  Queen-Mother,  MARGARET,  Duchess  of  Lorraine,  and 
Ladies. 

Ca.   No,  no,  the  scandal  stands  with  us,  not  you 
That  have  no  lot  in  it.     Well,  God  be  praised, 
It  does  not  touch  me  inwardly  and  sharp 
To  be  so  rid  of  him ;  but  I  do  pity 
The  means  of  his  removal,  from  my  heart 
I  pity  that.     'T  is  a  strange  deed  ;  I  have  not 
Seen  any  that  may  call  it  brother,  since 
That  dame's  who  slew  her  lord,  being  caught  in  middle 
Of  some  more  lewd  delight ;  her  name  now  ? 

Duch.  Chateaudun. 

Ca.   True,  so  it  was  ;  I  thank  you  ;  Chateaudun. 


132  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Mar.  How  says  she  yet  ?  will  she  confess  his  death  ? 

Ca.   No,  but  outbears  all  comfort  with  keen  words. 

Mar.  Truth,  I  commend  her  for  it ;  I  would  not  have 

her 

Show  the  wet  penitence  of  fools  that  are 
More  weak  than  what  they  do. 

Ca.  I  partly  hold  with  you. 

Have  we  no  music  ?     Nay,  I  would  hear  none  ; 
I  am  not  bowed  that  way ;  my  sense  will  not  stoop 
To  the  pleasurable  use  of  anything. 
Is  it  not  late  ? 

Mar.  I  think  it  wears  to  nine. 

Ca.   Nay,  it  lies  further ;  I  am  sure  it  does. 

Duck.   Madam,  it  is  not  late. 

Ca.  I  say  it  is ; 

If  I  am  pleased  to  reckon  more  than  you, 
It  shall  be  late. 

Mar.  I  promised  at  this  time 

To  be  about  my  husband  ;  if  I  fail, 
My  faith  is  breached  with  flaw  of  modesty. 

-Duck.   Nay,  go  not  yet. 

Ca.  Will  you  lay  hands  on  her  ? 

Duch.   I  do  beseech  you  — 

Mar.  What  makes  you  cling  to  that  ? 

Duch.   If  you  would  show  me  kindness,  do  not  go. 

Ca.  You  play  love's  fool  awry. 

Mar.  Show  me  some  reason. 

Duch.   I  have  no  reason  broader  than  my  love ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  133 

And  from  the  sweetest  part  of  that  sweet  love 

I  do  entreat  you  that  you  will  not  go, 

But  wake  with  me  to-night     I  am  not  well. 

Mar.   Sister,  I  am  quite  lost  in  your  desire. 

Ca.  What,  are  you  ill  ?  how  shall  it  get  you  whole 
To  wake  the  iron  watches  of  the  night 
Companioned  with  hard  ache  of  weariness 
And  bitter  moods  that  pain  feeds  full  upon  ? 
Come,  you  are  idle ;  I  will  wakje  with  you, 
If  you  must  wake  ;  trouble  not  her  so  much. 

Mar.   Indeed  it  would  a  little  tax  me. 

Ca.  Nay, 

Think  not  upon  it ;  get  you  hence  and  sleep. 
Commend  me  to  your  lord ;  bid  him  thank  me 
That  he  to-night  doth  side  you  ;  it  is  a  grace 
Worth  honorable  thanks. 

Duck.  Still  I  beseech  you 

To  keep  me  company  some  poor  two  hours  ; 
My  prayer  is  slight,  more  large  my  need  of  it ; 
I  charge  you  for  pure  pity  stay  with  me. 

Ca.   Are  you  gone  mad  ?  what  makes  your  prayer  in 

this? 

As  you  regard  my  wrath  or  my  fair  mood, 
And  love  me  better  peaceable  than  harsh, 
Make  a  quick  end  of  words.  —  Margaret,  good  night.  — 
Nay,  sit  you  close.  —  At  once  good  night,  my  love ; 
I  pray  you  do  my  message. 

Mar.  Madam,  I  will; 


134  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

No  less  fair  night  with  you  and  with  my  sister, 
Whom  I  shall  look  to  see  as  whole  in  health 
As  sound  in  spirit. 

Ca.  I  will  take  pains  for  it ; 

She  shall  get  healed  with  pains  ;  have  no  such  fear. 

[Exit  MARGARET. 

Are  you  so  much  a  fool  ?  by  heaven,  I  am  ashamed 
That  ever  I  did  use  your  faith  like  mine, 
Nay  that  some  blood  of  mine  was  lost  on  you 
To  make  such  shallow  stuff  as  you  are  of. 

Duck.   Madam,  you  have  not  thought  — 

Ca.  What  ailed  my  wits 

To  lay  so  precious  office  on  your  brain, 
Which  is  filled  out  with  female  matters,  marred 
With  milky  mixtures  ?  I  do  loathe  such  women 
Worse  than  a  leper's  mouth. 

Duck.  Consider  but  her  state  • 

It  is  your  flesh,  my  sister  and  my  blood, 
That  must  look  death  in  the  eyes  ;  you  bid  her  hold 
Keen  danger  by  the  skirt,  gripe  hands  with  him  ; 
For  those  that  scape  the  edges  of  your  men, 
Being  refuged  in  her  lodging,  may  as  well 
Turn  their  own  points  on  her ;  if  none  escape, 
Then  in  the  slaying  of  her  husband's  men 
She  may  well  chance  on  some  one's  iron  side 
And  death  mistake  her  end. 

Ca.  I  did  mistake 

More  grossly,  to  believe  the  blood  in  you 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  135 

Was  not  so  mean  in  humor  as  it  is. 
She  is  safe  enough  ;  he  that  but  strikes  at  her 
With  his  bare  hand  doth  pluck  on  his  bare  head 
Sudden  destruction.     Say  she  were  not  safe, 
Must  we  go  back  for  that  and  miss  the  way 
That  we  have  painfully  carved  out  and  hewn 
From  the  most  solid  rivet  of  strong  time  ? 

Duck.    If  you  would  bid  her  watch  — 

Ca.  I  will  do  nothing. 

Duch.   Let  me  but  speak  to  her. 

Ca.  You  shall  not  move  ; 

This  thing  is  heavier  than  you  think  of  it 
And  has  more  cost  than  yours.     You  shall  sit  still, 
And  shall  not  frown  or  gape  or  wag  your  head, 
As  you  respect  the  mood  of  my  misliking. 

Enter  Attendant. 

Att.   Madam,  the  Duke  of  Anjou  — 

Ca.  .  What  would  he  ? 

Att.   He  prays  you  dearly  be  about  the  king ; 
What  he  would  have  I  cannot  tell ;  I  am  sure 
He  is  much  moved,  and,  as  I  think,  with  fear. 

Ca.   This  is  an  absolute  summons.     I  will  go. 

[Exit  Attendant 

So,  get  you  in  ;  you  have  no  lot  beyond ; 
That  I  should  have  such  need  to  use  such  fools ! 
Get  you  to  bed  and  sleep.  [Exeunt  severally 


136  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     The  Louvre. 

The  King,  Queen-Mother,  BRANTOME,  TAVANNES,  LA  ROCHE- 
FOUCAULD, TELIGNY,  and  Attendants. 

Charles. 
"D  UT  up  the  dice ;  you  do  not  play  me  fair. 

Ca.   Indeed  the  cast  did  lie  too  much  his  way. 

La  R.   Do  me  right,  sir ;  the  chance  so  thrown  on  me 
May  come  to  serve  your  hand. 

Ch.  Nay,  God  forbid  ! 

I  would  not  fare  so  well,  lest  men  should  scent 
The  sudden  savor  of  sharp-relished  ills 
To  snuff  my  luck  behind.     Put  them  away. 

La  R.   So  I  may  take  my  leave,  my  lord,  I  will. 

Ch.   Abide  a  little. 

La  R.  Sir,  in  pure  faith,  I  may  not. 

Ch.   Lay  down  your  chariness  ;  I  pray  you  stay ; 
I  am  your  friend  that  do  entreat  you  stay 
To  help  me  use  my  better  humors  well. 

La  R.   This  grace  of  yours  doth  jar  with  time  in  me. 

Ca.   Fair  son,  put  no  dispute  in  marriage  ;  think, 
Our  noble  friend  is  yet  i'  the  green  of  time, 
The  summer  point  of  wedlock  ;  cross  him  not. 

Ch.   No,  he  shall  stay. 

Ca.  I  love  him  none  the  less 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  137 

That  would  enfranchise  his  obedience, 
Saying  "  let  pass." 

Bra.  I  have  known  an  honest  lady 

That  would  have  bit  her  lips  atwain  for  spite 
Sooner  than  slip  her  lord's  obedience  so 
And  slacken  the  remitted  service  of  him 
For  such  light  points  ;  I  do  remember  me  — 

Ca.   This  tale  will  hold  you,  sir. 

Bra.  I  bade  her  choose  a  friend, 

She  seeming  bare  of  any  courtesy 
That  is  well  done  to  such  ;  I  bade  her  choose  — 

La  R.   I  take  a  second  leave. 

Bra.  As  't  were  for  form,  — 

" Seeing,  look  you,"  said  I,  "a  lady's  office  is 
To  endure  love  and  wear  a  good  man's  name 
As  the  lace  about  her  wrist  "  — 

Ca.  You  shall  not  go. 

La  R.   Sir,  needs  I  must ;  you  shall  well  pardon  it. 

Bra.   She  with  a  face,  as  thus,  let  sideways  down, 
Catching  her  page  i'  the  eye,  —  a  thing  so  bearded 
As  are  a  woman's  lips  — 

Ca.  My  lord  Bourdeilles, 

I  pray  you  take  my  way,  I  '11  hear  this  out. 

Bra.   Please  you  so  suffer  me  — 

Ca.  Fair  son,  good  night. 

[Exeunt  CATH.,  BRANT.,  and  Attendants. 

Ch.   Good  night,  sweet  mother.  —  Is  she  truly  gone  ? 
Then  I  will  pray  you  leave  not  me  to-night ; 


138  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  '11  not  to  bed  ;  I  would  not  have  you  go  ; 
Yea,  by  God's  blood,  I  put  my  heart  indeed 
Into  this  prayer  of  mine.     Come,  pleasure  me  ; 
It  might  avail  you ;  what,  by  God's  own  face, 
I  think  I  sue  to  you.     Is  this  much  alms 
That  you  should  please  me  ? 

La  R.  Sir,  for  my  poor  half, 

I  must  tie  thanks  upon  the  neck  of  No 
And  turn  him  forth  of  me. 

Ch.  Then  you  keep  here  ? 

La  R.   Good  faith,  I  cannot  so  ;  and  I  well  think 
This  lord  speaks  with  me. 

Tel.  Even  your  sense,  indeed. 

Ch.   You  use  me  hardly,  but  my  wish  to  you 
Lives  none  the  less  a  good  and  honest  wish  ; 
So,  if  my  meaning  tastes  not  sweet  to  you, 
Farewell,  yea  well.     One  see  my  dear  friends  out. 

La  ./?.,  Tel.   Good  night,  fair  lord. 

[Exeunt  LA  ROCH.  and  TEL. 

Ch.  I  would  have  kept  them  yet. 

So,  if  a  man  have  sight  of  a  big  stone, 
And  will  needs  trip  and  sprawl  with  a  bruised  head, 
Is  it  my  fault  that  show  him  such  a  stone  ? 
Or  say  one  filches  a  fair  sword  of  mine 
To  rip  himself  at  side,  is  my  sin  there  ? 
Nay  not  that  much,  but  walking  with  my  sword 
It  galls  him  in  the  thigh  ;  am  I  his  hurt  ? 
Twice,  yea  now  thrice,  if  you  shall  mark  me,  sir, 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  139 

Yea,  God  knows  well  I  sued  three  times  to  them, 
I  would  have  had  all  scars  keep  off  their  flesh, 
But  God's  will  is  not  so. 

Tav.  You  do  the  wiser 

To  let  them  pass. 

Ch.  Why  truly  so  I  think. 

But  I  am  heart-stung  for  these  ;  this  Teligny 
That  might  have  laid  a  word  of  help  my  way 
And  kept  such  sullen  lips  of  doubtfulness, 
I  have  loved  him  well.     The  other,  see  you,  sir, 
I  have  twined  arms  with  him,  fed  from  his  eyes, 
Made  a  large  pleasure  out  of  usual  things 
Wherein  his  lot  fell  evenly  with  mine, 
Laid  my  heart  on  him  ;  yea,  this  singled  man 
Was  as  the  kin  made  closest  to  my  flesh 
And  in  the  dearest  of  my  secret  will 
Did  as  a  brother  govern.     But  he  may  go  ; 
I  were  fallen  wrong  too  far  to  pity  him  ; 
So,  though  they  mainly  mar  him  with  their  pikes, 
Stab  till  the  flesh  hath  holes  like  a  big  net, 
I  will  not  think  I  am  compassionate  ; 
Yea,  though  my  thought  of  him  pricks  me  at  brain, 
I  will  believe  I  do  not  pity  him. 
Show  me  the  matter  of  your  place,  your  way, 
The  measure  of  your  men  ;  nay,  my  sweet  lord, 
Pray  you  hold  fast  on  this ;  be  not  made  pitiful. 
Nay,  but  stand  sure*;  nay,  I  beseech  you,  sure. 

[Exeunt 


HO  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

SCENE  II.    Denises  Apartment. 
Enter  DEMISE. 

Den.   It  is  the  time  ;  had  but  this  solid  eaith 
A  capable  sense  of  peril,  it  should  melt 
And  all  disjoint  itself ;  the  builded  shape  of  things 
Should  turn  to  waste  and  air.     It  is  as  strange 
As  is  this  perilous  intent,  that  men 
Should  live  so  evenly  to-night ;  talk,  move, 
Use  contemplation  of  all  common  times, 
Speak  foolishly,  make  no  more  haste  to  sleep 
Than  other  days  they  do ;  I  have  not  seen 
A  man  to-day  seem  graver  in  the  mouth, 
Wear  slowness  on  his  feet,  look  sideways  out, 
Make  new  the  stuff  and  subject  of  his  speech, 
Reason  of  things,  matter  of  argument, 
For  such  a  business.     I  see  death  is  not  feared, 
Only  the  circumstance  and  clothes  of  death  ; 
Or  else  men  do  not  commune  more  with  time 
Nor  have  its  purpose  in  them  larger  writ 
Than  a  beast  has.    Why,  I  did  surely  think 
Such  ill  foreknowledge  would  have  mastered  me 
Quite  beyond  reason  ;  wrenched  my  sense  away, 
Brought  it  to  dull  default.     But  I  do  live  and  stir ; 
Have  reasonable  breath  within  my  lips  : 
Keep  my  brain  sound,  and  all  my  settled  blood 
Runs  the  right  way.     Perhaps  I  sleep  and  dream 
That  such  things  are  as  my  fear  dotes  upon. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  141 

Why  then  I  should  be  mad  ;  and  being  mad 

I  might  hold  sound  opinion  of  my  wit 

When  it  were  truly  flawed.     If  I  not  dream 

And  have  no  passionate  mixture  in  my  brain, 

Large  massacre  to-night  should  fill  itself 

With  slaughtered  blood  and  the  live  price  of  men. 

Why  this  ?  forsooth  because  of  that  and  that, 

For  this  man's  tongue  and  that  man's  beard  or  gait, 

For  some  rank  slip  of  their  opinion. 

I  see  full  reason  why  men  slay  for  hate, 

But  for  opinion  or  slack  accident 

I  get  no  cause  at  all.     Then  I  am  mad 

That  I  do  think  what  works  so  much  awry 

And  is  past  reason  so,  the  natural  sense 

Doth  sicken  in  receiving  it  for  news, 

To  be  the  absolute  act  and  heart  of  truth. 

I  will  not  credit  this.    Yet  wherefore  am  I 

So  used  as  prisoner  here  ?  why  taxed  with  sin  ? 

Why  watched  and  kept  so  hard  ?  called  murderess  ? 

I  '11  be  assured  of  it.     You  jailer,  you  — 

And  yet  I  am  afraid  to  call  her  forth. 

O,  she  is  come. 

Enter  YOLANDE. 

Vol.  Did  you  not  call  for  me  ? 

Den.   I  think  I  did  cry  out,  being  moved  in  sleep : 
I  had  a  dream  of  you. 

Yol.  Ay,  had  you  so  ? 

And  I  had  set  a  waking  thought  on  you. 


142  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Den.  What  time  is  it  ? 

Yol.  Just  hard  upon  eleven. 

Den.   I  have  slept  four  hours.     I  pray  you  tell  me  now, 
As  you  are  gentle,  —  I  do  love  you  much,  — 
Is  it  my  dream  I  am  a  prisoner? 

Yol.   Did  you  not  call  me  jailer  ? 

Den.  True,  I  did. 

Now  I  begin  to  patch  my  dream  again 
And  find  the  colors  right.     I  dreamed  I  was 
Some  sort  of  evil  beast  that  loved  a  man, 
And  the  man's  heel  did  bruise  it  in  the  neck. 

Yol.   Take  heed  of  it ;  you  were  a  snake  by  this. 

Den.   I  do  not  know ;  it  may  be  such  I  was. 
I  dreamed  of  you  too  ;  for  you  took  me  up 
And  hid  me  in  a  cage  and  gave  me  food,  — 
I  think  I  was  a  kind  of  dismal  bird,  — 
And  having  eaten  of  your  seed  and  drunk 
Water  more  sharp  than  blood,  I  waxed  all  through 
Into  a  dull  disease  of  overgrowth 
And  so  was  choked  to  death  ;  and  men  there  came 
That  roasted  me  for  food,  and  having  eaten 
All  suddenly  did  break  in  twain  and  die. 
That  was  the  dream. 

Yol.  It  was  a  foolish  one. 

Den.  Then  I  fell  back  to  dream  of  one  like  you 
Who  held  me  prisoner ;  which  was  dangerous  ; 
For  I,  being  grown  to  mad  rebellion, 
Took  thought  to  kill  you. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  143 

Vol.  That  dream  was  not  so  good. 

Den.   Why  do.  I  say  all  this  ?     Let  me  get  hence, 
Only  the  little  part  in  heaven  I  have 
I  '11  kill  myself;  nay,  by  God's  name  I  will. 

Vol.   Do  your  own  way. 

Den.  You  shall  be  taxed  with  it, 

(As  I,  more  harmless,  am)  being  guard  of  me  ; 
I  will  find  ways  to  leave  the  tax  on  you. 

Yol.   Pleasure  yourself ;  I  bid  you  not  refrain. 

Den.   It  is  a  most  poor  mercy  that  I  ask. 

Yol.   Too  much  for  me. 

Den.  O,  it  is  less  in  worth 

Than  God  spares  barest  men ;   the  most  base  need  on 

earth 

Is  richer  in  his  pity  than  you  are 
In  charitable  use  of  me,  who  am 
Too  little  for  your  scorns. 

Yol.  I  will  not  do  it. 

Den.   Some  prayers,  long  while  denied,  are  sweeter  held 
For  being  late  granted  ;  do  not  so  with  mine ; 
I  will  be  thankful  more  than  beggars  are, 
Made  rich  with  grant  too  soon. 

Yol.  Plead  not  to  me  ; 

I  have  no  patience  in  my  ears  for  you. 

Den.  Think  how  you  use  me  ;  even  kings  do  leave 
Some  liberty  to  the  worst  worm  alive, 
Some  piece  of  mercy ;  but  you,  more  hard  than  kings, 
Show  no  such  grace  as  the  great  jailers  do 


144  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

That  wear  at  waist  the  keys  of  the  world.    You  know 
'T  is  better  be  whole  beggar  and  have  flesh 
That  is  but  pinched  by  weather  out  of  breath, 
'  Than  a  safe  slave  with  happy  blood  i'  the  cheek 
And  wrists  ungalled.     There  's  nothing  in  the  world 
So  worth  as  freedom  ;  pluck  this  freedom  out, 
You  leave  the  rag  and  residue  of  man 
Like  a  bird's  back  displumed.     That  man  that  hath  not 
The  freedom  of  his  name,  and  cannot  make 
Such  use  as,  time  and  place  would  please  him  with, 
But  has  the  clog  of  service  at  his  heel 
Forbidding  the  sound  gait ;  this  is  no  man 
But  a  man's  dog ;  the  pattern  of  a  slave 
Is  model  for  a  beast. 

Yol.  What  do  you  mean  by  this  ? 

Den.   To  show  you  what  unworthy  pain  it  is 
Your  office  lays  on  me. 

Yol.  It  is  my  place  ; 

My  faith  is  taken  to  assure  you  thus, 
And  you  have  bought  such  usage  at  my  hands 
By  your  own  act. 

Den.  No,  by  your  life,  I  have  not. 

Yol.  You  are  impeached  and  must  abide  the  proof. 

Den.  The  proof,  —  ay,  proof ;  do,  put  me  to  the  proof. 
There  is  not  proof  enough  upon  me  known 
To  stop  a  needle's  bore.     The  man  now  dead 
I  held  my  friend,  was  sorry  for  his  death, 
Not  pricked  for  guilt  of  it.    Poor  fool,  I  would 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  145 

That  I  had  borrowed  such  a  death  of  him 
And  left  him  better  times  to  boot  than  do 
Keep  company  with  me. 

Vol.  I  would  you  had. 

Were  one  no  better  dead  than  stained  so  much  ? 
I  think  so  ;  for  myself,  in  such  a  scale 
The  weights  were  easy  to  make  choice  of. 

Den.  I  would  not  die, 

Vol.   Did  you  not  say  his  share  were  easier  borne  ? 

Den.   'T  is  like  I  said  so  ;  yet  I  would  live  long. 

Yol.  Why  would  you  so  ?  is  there  such  grace  in  you 
To  wear  out  all  the  bar  and  thwart  of  time 
And  take  smooth  place  again  ?    The  life  you  have, 
Like  a  blown  candle  held  across  the  wind, 
Dies  in  the  use  of  it ;  you  are  not  loved, 
Or  love  would  kiss  out  shame  from  either  cheek, 
New-join  the  broken  patience  in  your  eyes, 
Comfort  the  pain  of  your  so  scarred  repute 
Where  the  brand  aches  on  it ;  honored  you  are  not, 
For  the  loud  breath  of  many-mouthed  esteem 
Cries  harsher  on  you  than  on  common  thieves 
When  they  filch  life  and  all ;  you  are  not  secure, 
For  the  most  thin  divisions  of  a  day 
That  score  the  space  between  two  breaths,  to  you 
Are  perilous  implements  edged  with  all  hate 
To  use  upon  your  life ;  you  are  not  happy  either, 
For  guilty,  shame  doth  bruise  your  side  with  lead, 
Or  clean,  why  rumor  stabs  you  in  the  face, 

7  J 


146  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Spits  in  your  mouth.     What  sweet  is  in  this  life 
That  you  would  live  upon  ? 

Den.  I  do  not  know ; 

But  I  would  live ;  though  all  things  else  be  sharp, 
Death  stays  more  bitter  than  them  all ;  I  would  not 
Touch  lips  with  death. 

Yol.  No  ?     I  have  no  such  doubt. 

Den.   Is  it  your  place  to  make  me  friends  with  death  ? 

Yol.   It  is  my  pity. 

Den.  I  should  find  it  so 

Were  I  the  cushion  for  a  fool's  feet,  or 
A  fool  indeed  of  yours. 

Yol.  I  called  you  none. 

Den.   I  were  the  bell  i'  the  worst  fool's  cap  alive 
If  I  rang  right  to  this  wrong  breath  of  yours. 
You  talk  to  get  me  harmed. 

Yol.  Put  off  that  fear. 

Den.    I  will  not,  truly ;  you  would  talk  me  out, 
Be  rid  of  me  this  whispering  way,  this  fashion 
That  pulls  on  death  by  the  ear ;  I  feel  your  wisdom  ; 
'T  is  craft  thick-spun,  but  I  shall  ravel  it. 

Yol.   This  is  your  garment  that  you  thrust  me  in. 

Den.   It  must  not  be  so  late  ;  there  will  be  time  ; 
I  was  a  fool  to  call  it  over  late. 
Give  up  your  keys. 

Yol.  What  madness  bites  you  now  ? 

Den.   She  called  you  jailer ;  give  me  up  the  keys  ; 
You  have  the  keys  ;  the  outer  door  is  fast ; 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  147 

If  this  be  madness  I  am  friends  with  it ; 
Give  me  the  keys. 

Vol.  Will  you  put  hands  on  me  ? 

Den.   I  '11  have  them  out,  though  God  would  make  you 

man 
To  use  me  forcibly. 

Vol.  I  have  none  such  ; 

Threaten  me  not,  or  you  shall  smite  yourself. 

Den.   I  say,  the  keys. 

Vol.  What  will  you  do  to  me  ? 

Den.   Keep  there,  you  get  not  out 

Yol.  Are  you  stark  crazed  ? 

Den.   It  may  look  like  enough.    What  chain  is  that  ? 
Give  me  the  chain. 

Yol.  I  swear  I  have  them  not. 

Den.   I  do  not  ask  for  them.     Give  me  the  chain  ; 
Pray  you  now,  do  ;  good  truth  you  are  not  wise 
To  use  me  so  ;  I  know  you  have  no  keys. 
Give  me  the  chain  ;  soft,  soft  — 

Yol.  Here  are  the  keys. 

Take  them  and  let  me  pass. 

Den.  I  thank  you,  no  ; 

If  I  be  mad  I  must  do  warily, 
Or  they  will  trap  me.     Get  you  into  my  chamber ; 
Now  am  I  twice  the  sinew  of  all  you 
And  twice  as  wise.     I  say,  get  in ;  God's  love  ! 
How  you  do  pull  my  patience  !  in  sound  wits 
It  were  too  hard  to  bear.     Make  haste,  I  say. 

[Exeunt  severally* 


148  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

SCENE  III.    A  Cabinet. 
Enter  the  Queen-Mother  and  TAVANNES. 

Ca.   So,  you  did  see  them  forth  ? 

Tav.  Madam,  I  did ; 

The  king  doth  fare  by  this  more  temperately. 

Ca.   If  he  turn  white  and  stagger  at  his  point, 
It  is  too  late.     The  mortal  means  of  danger 
Are  well  abroad  ;  and  this  sole  work  o'  the  world 
Fit  to  set  hands  to.     How  do  you  feel  by  this  ? 

Tav.  Why,  well ;  as  if  my  blood  were  full  of  wine. 

Ca.   I  am  hot  only  in  the  palm  of  the  hands. 
Do  you  not  think,  sir,  some  of  these  dead  men, 
Being  children,  dreamed  perhaps  of  this  ?  had  fears 
About  it  ?  somewhat  plucked  them  back,  who  knows, 
From  wishing  to  grow  men  and  ripen  up 
For  such  a  death  to  thrust  a  sickle  there  ? 

Tav.    I  never  found  this  woman  mixed  in  you. 

Ca.   No.  —  I  am  certain  also  that  this  hour 
Goes  great  with  child-birth  and  with  fortunate  seed, 
Worth  care  to  harvest ;  sons  are  born  and  die, 
Yea,  and  choke  timeless  in  the  dead  strait  womb, 
Of  whom  we  know  not ;  each  day  breeds  worse ;  it  is 
The  general  curse  of  seasons. 

Tav.  Well,  what  help  ? 

Ca.   True.  —  It  hurts  little  for  a  man  to  die, 
If  he  be  righteous.    Were  I  a  swordsman  born, 
A  man  with  such  red  office  in  my  hands 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  149 

As  makes  a  soldier,  —  it  would  touch  me  not 

To  think  what  milk  mine  enemy's  mouth  had  drunk, 

When  both  were  yearlings  a  span  long.     My  God  ! 

It  is  too  foolish  that  conceit  of  blood 

Should  stick  so  on  the  face ;  I  must  look  red ; 

Give  me  the  little  mirror-steel ;  now  see ; 

Here  is  no  painting. 

Tav.  Yea,  but  let  me  go. 

Ca.   It  is  man's  blood  that  burns  so  deep  and  bites 
No  crying  cleans  it.     If  one  kill  a  dog, 
The  spot  sticks  on  your  skirt  as  water  might ; 
The  next  rain  is  a  worse  thing.     Humph  !     I  see ; 
We  have  some  hot  and  actual  breath  in  us 
That  blood  lets  out ;  we  feed  not  as  they  do ; 
So  the  soul  comes  and  makes  all  motion  new ; 
One  guesses  at  it. 

Tav.  Will  you  go  mad  for  this  ? 

Ca.   No.  —  If  one  strike  me  on  the  mouth  or  breast, 
And  I  am  hurt  and  bleed  to  death,  —  is  that 
Murder  ?    I  would  not  kill  them  for  their  blood ; 
God's  mercy !  wherein  can  their  blood  serve  me  ? 
Let  all  go  through. 

Tav.  '  Madam,  I  take  my  leave  ; 

All  shall  run  out  ere  we  two  speak  again. 

Ca.   Hark !  I  hear  shots  ;  as  God  shall  pity  me, 
I  heard  a  shot.     Who  dies  of  that  ?  yea,  now, 
Who  lies  and  moans  and  makes  some  inches  red? 

Tav.   Not  for  an  hour  yet ;  the  first  dial-rim 
Makes  the  first  shot 


ISO  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.  The  noise  moves  in  my  head, 

Most  hotly  moves  ;  pray  you  keep  clear  of  me. 
God  help  my  woman's  body  for  a  fool's  ! 
I  must  even  sit. 

Tav.  Be  patient  with  your  cause  ; 

Give  it  all  room,  then  you  get  heart  again  ; 
I  know  those  ways. 

Ca.  Too  sharp  to  drink,  too  sharp, 

Sweet  Christ  of  mine  ;  blood  is  not  well  to  drink, 
God  put  this  cup  some  little  off  my  mouth. 
Yea,  there  it  catches  in  mine  eyes  like  smoke, 
The  smell  of  blood,  it  stings  and  makes  one  weep ; 
So,  God  be  patient  till  I  breathe  again. 

Tav.    Are    you  fallen  foolish  ?    woman,  —  madam, 

thou! 
Take  heart  to  speak  at  least. 

Ca.  I  will  take  heart. 

What  is  there  in  it  that  should  bar  my  breath, 
Or  make  me  babble  stark  across  the  sense 
As  I  did  then  ?  can  the  flesh  merely  prate 
With  no  mind  in  it  to  fall  praying,  ha  ? 
Give  me  some  wine.     Go  out  and  cheer  your  men ; 
Bid  them  be  bold  ;  say,  work  is  worth  such  pains  ; 
Be  quick  and  dangerous  as  the  fire  that  rides 
Too  fast  for  thunder.     Tell  them  the  king,  the  king 
Will  love  each  man,  cherish  him  sweetly,  say, 
And  I  will  hold  him  as  that  brother  is 
Whom  one  flesh  covered  with  me.  —  Will  it  rain  ? 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  151 

Tail.   No ;  the  wide  ends  of  the  sky  are  clear  with  stars  ; 
It  is  broad  moon-time. 

Ca.  I  would  fain  see  rain. 

Art  thou  so  slow  of  purpose,  thou  great  God, 
The  keenest  of  thy  sighted  ministers 
Can  catch  no  knowledge  what  we  do  ?  for  else 
Surely  the  wind  would  be  as  a  hard  fire, 
And  the  sea's  yellow  and  distempered  foam 
Displease  the  happy  heaven  ;  wash  corn  with  sand 
To  waste  and  mixture  ;  mar  the  trees  of  growth  ; 
Choke  birds  with  salt,  breach  walls  with  tided  brine 
And  chase  with  heavy  water  the  horned  brood 
Past  use  of  limit ;  towers  and  popular  streets 
Should  in  the  middle  green  smother  and  drown, 
And  havoc  die  with  fulness.  —  I  should  be  mad, 
I  talk  as  one  filled  through  with  wine  ;  thou,  God, 
Whose  thunder  is  confusion  of  the  hills 
And  with  wrath  sown  abolishes  the  fields, 
I  pray  thee  if  thy  hand  would  ruin  us, 
Make  witness  of  it  even  this  night  that  is 
The  last  for  many  cradles,  and  the  grave 
Of  many  reverend  seats  ;  even  at  this  turn, 
This  edge  of  season,  this  keen  joint  of  time, 
Finish  and  spare  not.     If  no  thunder  came 
When  thou  wert  full  of  wrath  to  the  fierce  brim, 
Next  year  would  spit  on  worship.  —  I  am  faint  yet ; 
See  you,  I  have  to  chatter  these  big  words 
To  keep  my  head  straight ;  each  small  nerve  it  hath 


152  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Is  like  a  chord  pulled  straight  to  play  upon 

Till  the  string  ache  at  sound.     Sir,  bear  with  me. 

Tav.   Keep  but  soft  speech.     Nay,  pray  you  let  me  go  ; 
Open  the  door ;  I  should  be  hence  in  time. 

[  The  King  of  Navarre  passes  over  the  stage. 

Ca.   Good  night,  lord  marshal.     You  come  late,  fair  sir, 
To  bear  my  daughter  commendations. 
I  doubt  she  looks  for  you  ;  I  have  had  pains 
To  bring  her  safe  and  presently  your  way ; 
She  had  some  will  to  watch. 

Hen.  I  am  the  more  bound  to  you. 

Ca.   Let  my  praise  sleep  to-night,  unless  you  do 
Speak  well  of  me  to  her.     See,  the  white  stars 
Do  burn  upon  the  fair  blue  weather's  waste 
Thick  as  the  lulled  wind  carries  the  marred  leaves  ; 
Yea,  see  how  gray  my  likenesses  are  grown, 
That  grow  on  my  gray  years ! 

Hen.  Madam,  good  night.        [Exit. 

Ca.   That  gives  one  heart ;  and  yet  I  seem  to  choke, 
I  shall  feel  weak  till  I  do  hear  them  shoot. 
Pray  you  take  order  that  the  watch  be  sharp 
Upon  this  boy. 

Tav.  I  shall  take  order. 

Ca.  Yea, 

But  go  with  me  till  I  have  seen  the  king.  [Exeunt. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  153 

SCENE  IV.    A  Street. 
Enter  GUISE  -with  Soldiers. 

Giii.   Keep  in,  let  no  man  slip  across  of  you ; 
Hold  well  together ;  what  face  I  miss  of  mine 
Shall  not  see  food  to-morrow ;  but  he  that  makes 
So  dull  a  mixture  of  his  soul  with  shame 
As  spares  the  gold  hair  or  the  white,  shall  be 
Dead  flesh  this  hour.     Take  iron  to  your  hands, 
Fire  to  your  wills ;  let  not  the  runagate  love 
Fool  your  great  office  ;  be  pity  as  a  stone 
Spurned  either  side  the  way.     That  breast  of  woman 
That  suckles  treason  with  false  milk  and  breeds 
Poison  i'  the  child's  own  lip,  think  not  your  mother's  • 
Nor  that  lank  chin  which  the  gray  season  shakes 
Hold  competent  of  reverence.     Pluck  me  that  corn 
Which  alters  in  the  yellow  time  of  man  ; 
And  the  sick  blade  of  ungrown  days  disroot, 
The  seed  makes  rot  the  flower.     There  's  no  such  use 
But  reason  turns  to  holy,  and  keen  right 
Washes  as  pure  as  faith  ;  therefore  be  swift,  and  let 
Cold  mercy  choke  on  alms. 

A  Captain.  We  shall  not  fail. 

Gui.   Some  ten  go  with  me  to  the  admiral's  house  ; 
You  shall  be  one,  —  and  you  ;  pluck  him  from  bed, 
And  use  his  body  as  your  edges  please, 
Then  hale  him  through  the  street.     The  rest  of  you, 
As  you  see  time,  fire  either  way ;  then  draw, 

7* 


154  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  strike  across  the  thickest  ends  of  flight, 
God  helping  you.     Say  "  Guise  "  now  and  set  on. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     The  AdmiraFs  House. 
Enter  COLIGNY  and  LA  NOUK 

La  N.   That  this  is  true  we  have  clean  proofs ;  she  hath 

made  us 

Pawns  of  her  game  ;  this  very  France  of  ours 
Is  as  a  cloth  to  wipe  her  feet  upon, 
Her  bed  and  stool  of  lust ;  and  hath  put  on 
The  naked  patience  of  a  beaten  face 
And  sufferance  of  a  whore. 

Co.  I  think  so.     Sir, 

I  have  believed  this  marriage  of  Navarre 
Began  our  waste. 

La  N.  That  stings  me  not  so  hard 

As  that  men  mix  us  in  their  mouths  with  fools 
Who  are  not  worth  our  slight  esteem  of  them, 
And  yet  have  sewn  religion  on  their  sleeve 
And  badged  their  caps  with  us. 

Co.  They  have  done  more  harm  ; 

There  is  no  lean  or  lesser  villany 
That  war  or  peace-time  saddles  them  withal. 
But  it  must  be  our  blame,  the  fault  of  it 
Throws  dirt  on  us  and  each  man's  several  hand 
That  wets  no  finger  in  the  Catholic  way ; 
That  bites  the  nearest. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  155 

La  N.  We  are  imperilled  ;  well, 

Danger  should  be  the  coat  across  my  back, 
Meat  in  my  lips,  if  I  saw  clear  and  good 
The  choice  and  shape  of  our  necessity ; 
But  here  to  blunder  the  chance  out,  —  my  lord, 
No  help  for  us  then  here  ? 

Co.  I  see  no  help. 

Nay  too,  I  bind  not  all  the  weight  on  them  ; 
In  me  and  you  the  plague  is  well  at  work 
That  rots  all  chances.     We  have  let  go  the  times 
That  came  with  gold  in  the  hands  ;  and  that  slow  snake, 
Impotent  patience  of  pernicious  things, 
Hath  won  upon  us,  and  blown  murderous  breath 
Between  the  wide  unwardered  lips  of  sleep. 
Come,  talk  no  more.     Is  the  night  fair  ?  methinks 
I  heard  some  humming  rumors  run  through  it. 

La  N.   Sir,  fair  enough ;  there  goes  a  little  wind 
Among  the  roofs,  but  slow  as  a  maimed  man  ; 
The  skies  burn  sharp  with  point  of  the  lit  stars, 
Even  to  the  larger  cope  of  all  there  is 
No  air  but  smooth. 

Co.  'T  is  a  good  night  for  sleep  ; 

Fair  time  to  you. 

La  N.  I  pray  God  set  such  peace 

Upon  the  seasonable  eyes  of  sleep 
As  may  well  comfort  you.     Dear  lord,  good  night.    [Exit. 

Co.   Farewell.  —  Now  might  I  put  lean  patience  in  my 
prayers 


156  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

If  I  should  pray  to-night ;  I  have  no  will 

To  leave  my  witness  against  men  and  pray 

That  God  would  suffer  them.     Surely  I  think  he  bears 

Somewhat  too  much  with  such  side-working  sins 

As  lame  the  laboring  hope  of  men,  and  make 

Endurance  a  blind  sort  of  sleepy  lie 

To  confute  God  with.     This  woman  here  grows  old, 

As  I  am  old ;  we  have  drawn  this  way  and  that 

So  long,  the  purpose  lessens  from  the  doing, 

Turns  to  a  very  function  of  the  flesh 

So  used  for  custom.     She  carries  France  her  way, 

And  my  way  breaks.     Then  if  one  sees  the  end, 

The  goal  that  shuts  the  roadway  sheer  across, 

The  builded  limit  of  a  complete  will, 

All  these  side-briers  and  puddled  rain-shallows 

That  rend  or  drench  us,  are  but  naught  thereto. 

Well,  here  I  tire  for  one,  and  fain  would  use 

This  winter  of  bleached  hair  and  fallen  flesh 

To  make  me  quiet  room.  —  Shut  up  the  house  ; 

Let  nothing  wake  the  windows.  —  I  will  to  bed.  — 

The  wind  gets  thick  indeed.    What  noise  is  there  ? 

\Firi 'ng  or*  tde. 
Get  me  a  light. 

Gui.    (Within.")  Nay,  but  get  you  first  in  ; 
Throw  the  knave  out  at  window. 

Co.  Yea,  my  Guise  ? 

Then  are  the  sickles  in  this  corn,  I  doubt. 

Gui.    ( Within.}  This  way,  men,  this  ! 

Co.  Not  so  ;  the  right  hand,  sirs. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  157 

SCENE  VI.     Outside  the  Louvre. 

Enter  DENISE. 

Den.   I  cannot  find  a  man  ;  the  cries  are  thick  ; 
I  come  too  late.    Alas,  I  fear  the  king 
Hath  put  the  order  forward ;  I  may  see  him 
And  so  prevent  some  peril ;  and  though  they  slay  me, 
I  die  of  my  misdoing.     Yet  I  fear  death 
Most  piteously,  wear  passion  on  my  cheek 
White  as  a  coward's.     I  '11  yet  forth  and  look  ; 
For  in  the  temper  of  this  bloody  time 
Must  sleep  my  help  or  end ;  I  may  discover  him 
And  that  may  be  some  grace  ;  now  God  be  good, 
Or  I  am  so  far  bruised  this  way,  as  death 
Can  bite  no  sharper.  {Exit. 


SCENE  VII.    A  Balcony  of  the  Louvre. 
Enter  many  Ladies. 

1  La.   Did  you  not  see  him  ? 

2  La.  Give  me  place,  place,  place ; 
I  have  the  news. 

3  La.  Not  you  ;  I  can  say  more. 

2  La.  How  your  sides  push  !  let  me  get  breath  —  O 

Mary! 
I  have  seen  such  things  — 

4  La.  As  should  wear  silence. 
'lLa.  Nay, 

For  they  felt  sweet. 


158  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

3  La.  See,  there  goes  one,  —  and  there ; 

0  well  run,  you  !  now  trip  him,  —  'ware  stones,  ho ! 
Or  you  may  catch  a  bruise. 

1  La.  Now  is  he  down. 
5  La.   Not  so ;  you  have  no  eyes. 

3  La.  Had  I  a  bow, 

1  would  take  four  myself.     Look,  look,  a  chase  ! 
O,  now  you  thrust. 

4  La.  Way,  sirs  !  make  way  for  him  ! 

5  La.   There  's  a  child  slain  ;  I  will  not  look  that  side  ; 
They  thrust  him  in  the  back. 

2  La.  Go  and  sew  threads  ; 
Go  sew ;  you  are  a  fool. 

1  La.  Who  has  that  side  ? 

4  La.   Do  him  no  hurt,  sirs  ;  yea,  the  point  now,  yea, 
Not  the  edge,  —  look  you  !  just  the  nape  across,  — 
Down  with  him,  there  ! 

3  La.  Is  the  old  man  yet  slain  ? 

2  La.  Ay,  by  the  Guise  ;  they  took  him  in  his  bed, 
Just  in  a  fumbled  sheet. 

i  La.  No,  he  was  risen. 

Enter  REN^E. 

Rente.  Why  are  you  here  ?  next  room  serves  best  for 

show; 

There  they  have  drawn  to  head,  that  all  the  street 
Swells  up  and  cries  ;  Soubise  and  Marsillac 
Hold  off  their  pikes. 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  159 

4  La.  Show  us  the  way  to  that. 

Renee.   This  way,  —  I  pray  you  hurt  me  not,  — this  way ; 
Do  not  push  close.     God's  love,  what  heat  is  here ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.     The  Streets. 

Enter  GUISE,  TAVANNES,  -with   Soldiers ;    MARSILLAC,  Sou- 
BISE,  PARDAILLAN,  and  others  confusedly. 

Sol.   Guise,  Guise  !  down  with  them !  for  the  king,  the 

king ! 
Guise,  Guise ! 

1  Sol.  Here,  dog,  take  this  to  choke  upon. 

Mar.   Sirs,  stand  by  me ;  hew  down  that  knave  at  right, 
I  pray  you,  sir.     Nay,  we  shall  spoil  them  yet ; 
Stand  but  a  little  fast. 

A  Huguenot.  Mercy  !  God  help ! 

Tav.  Thrust  me  a  steel  nail  in  that  tongue  and  throat ; 
So,  sir ;  prate  now  as  you  do  love  such  nails. 
Set  on ;  this  August  serves  for  reaping-time  ; 
Bleed  the  plague  out  with  your  incisions. 

Mar.   Guise,  if  thou  hast  a  man's  mark  left  on  thee, 
Do  me  this  right.     I  thank  you,  sir ;  the  office 
Spares  me  some  work. 

Gui.  Stand  to  me,  men  ;  down  with  him  ! 

My  heel  hath  rent  a  better  face  to-night. 

Tav.   Kill  me  this  scapegate  harlot  in  her  smock, 
The  child  to  water.     Charge  their  face  again; 
Make  a  clean  way  and  we  shall  smite  them  all. 


l6o  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Par.  Yea,  devil's  dog,  wilt  only  snarl  at  me  ? 
Prithee,  but  room  to  die  in  and  take  breath, 
One  stifles  this  way  stupidly,  —  ah,  beasts  !  [Dies. 

Tav.    (Crossing  Soubise.)  Ah  thing,  what  set  thee  on  such 

work  to  do  ? 

Die,  fragment,  and  turn  carrion  fit  for  use.  [Stabs  him. 

There  's  not  a  man  the  less. 

Sol.  Tavannes  !  Tavannes  ! 

Others.  Guise,  Guise  !  upon  them  for"  the  king,  the  king ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.     The  Louvre. 

The  Queen-Mother,  YOLANDE,  MARGARET,  Duchess  of  Lor- 
raine, and  Attendants. 

Ca.   Where  is  the  king  ? 

Vol.  Madam,  gone  forth  I  think. 

Ca.   Are  you  whole  yet  ?  you  look  half  slain  with  fear  ; 
Quiet  yourself. 

Mar.  You  know  not  what  I  saw. 

No,  not  your  hand ;  let  me  sit  here. 

Ca.  Yea,  sit.  — 

O,  are  you  there  ? 

Vol.  Madam,  it  is  no  fault 

To  say  she  is  escaped. 

Ca.  No  fault ! 

What,  have  you  let  her  go  ?  how  came  she  out  ? 

Yol.   Do  your  best  will  with  me  ;  I  will  speak  truth. 

Ca.   How  came  she  forth  ?  you  are  a  worthy  guard,  — 


THE   QUEEN-MOTHER.  161 

Do,  as  you  love  the  better  chance  of  time. 
I  have  a  will  to  smite  you  by  the  cheek ; 
Answer  to  that 

Yol.  By  heaven  I  speak  all  pure ; 

By  heaven  I  do ;  she  had  the  key  of  me.. 

Ca.   Do  not  you  mock ;  I  may  turn  sharp  with  you. 

Yol.  Alas,  I  do  not ;  she  put  force  on  me 
To  let  her  forth  ;  I  could  not  please  you  ;  do  not 
Lay  your  great  wrath  my  way. 

Ca.  O  fool,  —  fool,  —  fool ! 

Were  you  so  much  compassionate  of  her  ? 
I  was  bewitched  to  give  you  such  a  charge. 
Where  is  she  now  ?  speak  still. 

Yol.  I  have  not  seen. 

Ca.   If  these  be  lies  I  '11  find  a  bitter  way,  — 
I  '11  do,  —  I  have  no  time  to  think  of  it, 
But  I  '11  make  shame  as  wide  as  your  desert 
To  show  your  penitence.     Find  me  this  girl, 
Or  punishment  shall  reach  beyond  your  deed, 
Put  pity  out  of  service.     Look  for  her  ; 
Bring  her  to  me  ;  if  I  so  miss  her,  —  Go.   [Exit  YOLANDE. 
How  does  my  daughter  ?       ^ 

Duck.  Madam,  well  by  this. 

Mar.   But  shaken  to  the  brain. 

Ca.      '  Poor  child  ;  what  cause  ? 

Mar.   I  was  unclothed  for  sleep,  heavy  at  eyes, 
And  fit  for  my  bed's  heat,  when  thus  at  point 
There  comes  a  cry  and  beating  of  two  hands 


i62        •          THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Hard  at  my  door ;  then  snaps  the  hinge  from  it, 

And  a  man  comes,  smeared  shamefully  and  red 

With  a  new  wound  i'  the  side ;  flings  him  on  me, 

Plucks  me  half  slain  with  fear  across  the  bed, 

Cries  for  some  pity,  hales  me  by  the  hand, 

And  so  clings  hard  ;  when  my  great  fear  got  strength 

To  wellnigh  wrench  me  clear  and  throw  off  him, 

Begins  such  piteous  prayer  and  puts  rebuke 

To  such  a  tune,  so  bitter,  I  did  even 

Make  mercy  wet  with  tears  ;  whereon  (as  peril 

Would  outgrow  its  own  face  and  turn  like  death, 

Doubling  my  fear)  the  soldiers  after  him, 

Some  three  or  four,  flecked  murderously  with  blood, 

All  weaponed  for  their  work,  and  crying  out, 

Broke  in  on  us  ;  he  twisting  with  sore  fright 

Obscures  himself  with  me  ;  and  thus  in  doubt 

He  shuffled  this  side  death  ;  for  as  they  bore  on  him 

Still  holding  to  me,  comes  their  captain  in, 

Chides  the  knave  off  that  had  a  hand  on  us, 

And  plucks  him  loose  ;  then  with  mixt  laughter  did 

Swear  the  man  safe  ;  he  could  not  choose  but  laugh 

To  see  me  harried  so,  so  haled  and  drawn, 

Nor  I  to  see  him  laugh  ;  and  so  our  laughter 

Got  off  my  friend. 

Enter  the  King  with  an  arquebuse,  and  TAVANNES. 

Ch.  O,  are  you  here  ?     I  have 

Some  three  —  some  six  —  by  God  I  have  some  six 
Already  to  my  share. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  163 

Ca.  ( To  Tav.)  Sir,  what  is  this  ? 

Tew.   The  king  has  slain  some  six  of  them,  he  says ; 
I  saw  him  shoot  indeed. 

Ch.  Ay,  did  I  not  ? 

Hear  you,  he  says  I  did  ;  hear  him  a  little. 
One  —  two  —  see,  I  can  take  them  either  hand, 
The  place  is  wide. 

Tav.  Here,  by  this  balcony ; 

I  saw  him  shoot  myself. 

Ca.  How  goes  the  work  ? 

Tav.    Even  like  a  wave  that  turns  ;  the  thing  opposed 
Is  as  the  weed  it  rends  at  root  away, 
Dies  ere  the  touch  for  fear. 

Ca.  It  is  well  done. 

Tav.   The  king  did  summon  me  to  speak  with  ;  there 
I  left  them  midways.     Are  you  yet  abashed  ? 
I  think  it  smirches  you  with  half  a  red, 
This  pity  ;  are  you  nothing  plagued  with  it  ? 

Ca.   Not  I  a  jot ;  I  would  all  such  i'  the  world 
Were  here  to  be  so  rid. 

Re-enter  YOLANDE. 

Now  ?  have  you  her  ? 

Yol.   She  has  been  seen  to-night ;  one  found  her  late 
Ranging  the  rooms  and  passage  of  the  court 
Like  one  distempered  ;  now  catching  at  this  man 
To  pray  him  pity  her,  crying  on  him 
To  let  her  go ;  or  poring  in  side  ways 


164  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

To  follow  up  their  feet,  as  she  would  trace 
The  consequence  and  graft  of  peril  through 
To  know  it  thoroughly. 

Ca.  This  doth  approve  it  like 

That  she  is  fled;  where  should  she  hide  herself? 

Vol.   Madam,  the  main  half  of  your  ladies  are 
Gone  forth  to  gaze  upon  this  slaughter. 

Ca.  Ay ! 

May  she  be  there  ?    Lord  marshal,  have  you  seen 
These  ladies  that  she  talks  of  ? 

Ta-v.  Madam,  I  have ; 

They  were  about  the  windows  next  the  street 
Searching  each  side  with  large  and  curious  eyes ; 
I  saw  some  twenty  with  sweet  laughing  mouths 
And  hair  wherein  the  flame  of  lights  did  make 
New  colors  red  as  blood,  gathered  upon 
A  corpse  I  slew  myself,  with  fleers  and  gibes 
Abusing  the  blind  thing ;  it  made  me  merry 
To  hear  how  they  did  mock  the  make  of  it, 
As  blood  were  grown  their  game. 

Ca.  The  king  is  sad  ; 

I  have  a  word  like  mercy  in  my  mind, 
But  it  doth  wound  itself;  I  see  no  use 
That  sorrow  fails  not  in,  where  things  are  done 
That  will  not  be  wept  out. 

Tav.  'T  is  a  strange  night; 

But  not  to  me  displeasing ;  I  esteem 
Our  service  wholesome.     I  will  not  forth  again, 
For  I  have  watched  into  a  weariness. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  165 

Ca.  How  does  our  son  ? 

Ch.  I  think  some  runagates  be 

Yet  by  this  passage.     Give  me  that  again ; 
I  '11  score  them  too.     Nay,  if  one  wet  his  knees, 
Best  over  ears  and  all.  [Exit. 

Ca.  They  are  too  far  to  hit ; 

I  '11  wager  them  safe  out.     What  do  you  see  ? 

Tav.    They  have  escaped  the  points  o'  the  guard ;  I 

doubt 
He  will  not  bear  it  so. 

Yol.  O,  that  way  —  there  — 

Can  you  make  out  ?  a  woman  as  I  think  — 

Ca.   Some  poor  man's  wife ;  I  would  she  might  get  safe. 

Tav.   See,  the  king  thrusts  out  far ;  't  is  a  brave  king ; 
Look  how  his  bowing  body  crooks  itself 
After  the  aim. 

Ca.  Ten  pieces  to  a  doit 

The  issue  scars  not  her. 

Tav.  I  take  you,  madam. 

The  king  comes  back. 

Re-enter  King. 

Ca.  Have  I  waged  wrong  on  you  ? 

Ch.  I  have  slain  seven.  Mother,  I  could  begin 
To  sicken  of  this  way. 

Ca.  What  way,  fair  son  ? 

Ch.  I  did  not  think  the  blood  should  run  so  far. 
There  was  a  woman  I  saw  lately  slain, 


166  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

And  she  was  ript  i'  the  side  ;  at  point  to  die, 
She  threw  her  on  her  child  and  there  came  one 
Who  clove  it  by  the  throat.     Then  I  grew  sick 
And  my  head  seemed  to  change  as  if  the  stroke 
Had  dulled  it  through  the  bone  ;  the  sense  of  that 
Still  aches  in  me. 

Ca.  Set  your  thought  otherwise. 

Ch.   Why  so  I  do  ;  and  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  many  that  rose  fresh  with  wholesome  thoughts 
And  with  my  credit  washed  their  faiths  in  me 
Do  sleep  now  bloodily. 

Ca.  You  hurt  yourself 

To  lay  repentance  on  such  deeds  as  are 
Necessity's  mere  proof.     Put  this  away ; 
And  tell  yourself  how  many  dead  in  war 
Gave  battle  welcome  and  their  time  went  out 
Even  in  the  wording  of  it ;  and  but  for  this 
(Though  I  confess  the  sense  feels  sick  on  it) 
We  should  have  had  worse  wars. 

Ch.  I  think  we  might. 

Ca.  Bethink  you  too,  what  stings  us  in  the  seeing, 
It  is  no  new  infection  of  the  world 
Corrupting  all  its  usual  office,  or 
The  common  blood  of  it,  with  some  strange  sore, 
More  gross  being  new ;  such  things  have  chanced  ere  this, 
Yea,  many  thousand  times  have  men  put  hand 
To  a  worse  business,  and  given  hire  to  death 
To  captain  them  i'  the  field  and  play  their  man, 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  167 

Used  him  with  fellowship.     Who  knows,  sweet  son, 

But  here,  and  in  this  very  Paris,  where 

Our  work  now  smells  abhorred,  some  such  may  come 

To  try  more  bloody  issues,  and  break  faith 

More  shamefully  ?  make  truth  deny  its  face, 

Kill  honor  with  his  lips,  stab  shame  to  death, 

Unseat  men's  thoughts,  envenom  all  belief, 

Yea,  spit  into  the  face  and  eyes  of  God 

His  forsworn  promise  ?     Such  things  may  be  ;  for  time^ 

That  is  the  patient  ground  of  all  men's  seed 

And  ripens  either  corn  alike,  may  bring 

Deeds  forth  which,  shall  as  far  outreach  our  act 

As  this  doth  common  things;  and  so  they  wear 

The  clothes  and  cover  of  prosperity, 

Those  tongues  where  blame  of  us  yet  sticks  shall  put 

Applause  on  them. 

Ch.  It  may  be  you  say  true  ; 

I  would  believe  you  with  a  perfect  will. 

Enter  RENISE,  ANNE,  and  others,  with  DENISE. 

Ca.   What  is  this  business  ?  quick  — 

Ch.  O  now,  now,  now  — 

This  is  the  very  matter  of  my  thought 
That  was  a  ghost  before  ;  this  is  the  flesh, 
The  bone  and  blood  of  that  my  thin  surmise, 
Palpably  shaping  fear.     I  will  not  see  her. 

Ca.   How  fell  this  out  ?  you,  speak. 

Rente.  We  found  her  so  — 

Wounded  I  think  to  death. 


168  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Anne.  She  hath  besought  us 

To  bring  her  to  this  presence. 

Ca.  Can  she  speak  still  ? 

Anne.  Yea,  and  speak  straight ;  I  would  not  pawn  my 

word 
This  touch  were  deadly  to  her. 

Rente.  I  say  it  is  ; 

She  has  a  wound  i'  the  side. 

Ca.  Set  her  down  gently ; 

She  will  do  well ;  deal  softly  with  her;  good  ; 
Be  heedful  of  your  hands.     So  ;  look  to  her. 

Den.   I  thank  you,  madam ;  let  me  sit  a  little. 

Mar.   Give  her  some  wine. 

Den.  Sir,  are  not  you  the  king  ? 

He  was  grown  kind ;  let  them  not  slay  me  then, 
I  '11  swear  you  are  no  less.     I  think  I  am  hurt ; 
Let  me  speak  to  you  ;  my  side  hurts  indeed. 

Ch.   Nay,  if  hell  come  in  sleep,  then  hell  itself 
Is  like  the  face  of  a  dream.     Eh  ?  this  were  quaint, 
To  find  such  hell  at  last. 

Den.  I  thank  you  too ; 

For  I  am  well,  so  near  the  heart  of  quiet, 
The  most  hushed  inward  of  obscured  peace, 
1  feel  my  spirit  a  light  thing  and  sweet, 
Evened  with  what  it  was. 

Ca.  Hath  she  a  hurt  indeed  ? 

Yol.  Yea,  the  right  side  ;  she  holds  her  gown  on  it. 

Ca.   I  did  believe  this  was  the  stab  of  fear. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  169 

Get  her  away.  —  My  son,  remove  your  arms. 
Some  one  fetch  help;  but  not  too  quickly,  mark, 

[Aside  to  YOLANDE,  who  goes  out. 
Lest  speed  undo  itself.  —  Release  her,  sir. 

Den.   No,  let  him  hold  me  safe ;  your  hand  that  side, 
I  shall  breathe  better.     Do  they  still  slay  ?  Alas, 
It  is  a  night  shall  mark  you  red  forever 
I'  the  honest  eyes  of  men. 

Ca.  Will  she  talk  now? 

Ch.   How  came  this  hurt  on  you  ? 

Ca.  Make  that  no  question. 

Ch.  Will  you  teach  me  ?  Here,  sweet,  this  way;  you  know 
I  always  loved  you.  —  Give  us  room :  she  will 
Get  present  breath. 

Den.  It  was  a  window-shot,  — 

A  side-shot  striking  by  the  wall ;  O  God  ! 
It  pains  me  sore ;  but  ease  me  with  your  arm. 

Ch.   Is  God  fallen  old  at  once,  that  he  is  blind 
And  slays  me  not  ?     I  am  beneath  all  hell, 
Even  past  the  limit  and  conceit  of  reach 
Where  fire  might  catch  on  me.    Why,  I  have  slain 
The  chiefest  pearl  o'  the  world,  the  perfect  rule 
To  measure  all  sweet  things ;  now  even  to  unseat  God 
Were  a  slight  work. 

Den.  Was  it  your  aim  indeed  ? 

Ch.   O  no,  no  aim.     Get  me  some  help  ;  all  you 
That  gape  and  shiver  on  this  act  enstaged, 
You  are  all  parts  of  murder. 

8 


i;o  THE   QUEEN-MOTHER. 

Ca.  Sir,  be  patient ; 

This  cross  is  not  your  sin.  —  He  heeds  us  not ; 
Do  not  speak  to  him. 

Ch.  Is  she  yet  warm  ?     I  '11  give 

That  man  that  will  but  put  an  hour  in  her 
My  better  part  of  kingdom.     Nay,  look  up  ; 
This  breath  that  I  do  speak  to  thee  withal 
Shall  be  the  medicine  to  restore  thine  own 
Though  I  spend  all.     Sweet,  answer  me  ;  I  '11  make  thee 
Queen  of  my  present  power  and  all  that  earth 
Which  hangs  upon  it. 

Den.  Disquiet  not  yourself; 

I  do  not  chide  you  ;  nay,  I  know  too,  sir, 
You  never  hated  me ;  nor  did  I  ever 
Make  such  a  fault  as  should  have  plucked  me  thus 
Into  your  hate  or  stroke.     I  am  dead  indeed ; 
And  in  this  flesh  hath  God  so  scourged  your  act 
As  I  now  bleed  for  it ;  so  I  do  think 
That  from  this  time  his  adverse  hand  will  not 
Push  your  loss  further. 

Mar.  This  is  a  bitter  sight. 

Ca.   A  pitiful ;  but  come  you  not  into 't ; 
You  have  no  part. 

Den.  I  tax  you  not  for  it. 

I  have  good  hope  that  you  have  done  herein 
Mere  blind  man's  work,  not  put  upon  your  hands 
Murder's  own  wear ;  which  ministry  of  yours 
God  punishes  in  me.     Too  much  of  that. 


THE  QUEEN-MOTHER.  171 

Do  not  you  yet  for  this  my  foolish  sake 

Make  dull  your  better  seasons  ;  let  remorse, 

If  such  will  bite,  feed  otherwise  than  here ; 

For  me,  indeed  I  leave  no  blur  of  it 

To  blot  your  love  at  all.     For  my  grace  given 

Give  me  grace  back ;  change  mercy  with  me,  for 

I  have  wronged  you  too.     In  this  large  world,  dear  lord, 

I  have  so  little  space  I  need  use  time 

With  most  scant  thrift ;  yet  that  my  love  holds  out 

Let  me  catch  breath  to  say.     No,  stir  not  yet ; 

Be  but  two  minutes  patient  of  me  ;  keep 

Your  arm  more  straight.     Say  I  have  slain  myself 

And  the  thought  clears  you  ;  be  not  moved  thereat ; 

For  though  I  slew  a  something  that  you  loved 

I  did  it  lovingly.  \Dies. 

Ca.  Ay,  there  it  breaks  ; 

I  am  sorry  for  her,  she  was  fair  enough. 
Doth  she  not  breathe  ? 

Ch.  No  whit ;  the  lips  are  dull. 

Now  could  I  rail  God  out  of  pity,  change 
The   blessed  heaven  with  words  ;   yea,   move   sphered 

souls 

Into  a  care  of  me  ;  but  I  '11  say  nothing ; 
No  reason  stands  I  should  say  anything, 
Who  have  this  red  upon  my  soul.     Yea,  dead  ? 
She  is  all  white  to  the  dead  hair,  who  was 
So  full  of  gracious  rose  the  air  took  color, 
Turned  to  a  kiss  against  her  face.     Sirs,  help; 


i;2  THE  QUEEN-MOTHER. 

I  would  fain  have  her  hence ;  I  am  bound  to  you ; 
Sirs,  hurt  her  not  to  touch  her  side ;  yea,  so. 

[Exit,  with  some  bearing  out  the  body. 
Ca.  (To  Tav.)  Come  hither,  sir;  as  you  respect  my  grace, 
Lay  your  good  care  on  him,  that  in  waste  words 
His  mood  gall  not  himself.     For  this  girl  slain, 
Her  funeral  privacy  of  rite  shall  be 
Our  personal  care ;  though  her  deserts  were  such 
As  crave  no  large  observance,  yet  our  pity 
Shall  almost  cover  the  default  in  them 
With  all  smooth  grace  that  grace  may  do  to  her. 
You  to  my  son,  and  you  this  way  with  me ; 
The  weight  of  this  harsh  dawn  doth  bruise  my  sense, 
That  I  am  sick  for  sleep.     Have  care  of  him. 


ROSAMOND. 


ROSAMOND. 

I.     The  Maze  at  Woodstock. 
ROSAMOND,  CONSTANCE. 

Constance. 
HPAKE  not  such  thought  of  it. 

Ros.  Nay,  I  take  none  ; 

They  cannot  put  me  out  of  love  so  much 
As  to  take  thought  for  them ;  yet  I  am  hurt 
And  my  sense  wrung  at  this  a  little.     See, 
If  six  leaves  make  a  rose,  I  stay  red  yet 
And  the  wind  nothing  ruins  me ;  who  says 
I  am  at  waste  ?  —  Look,  since  last  night !  —  for  me, 
I  care  not-though  you  get  through  all  they  said. 
All  this  side  dashed  with  fits  of  weeping  time, 
See  you,  the  red  struck  out ;  an  evil  year. 
If  such  times  vex  me  till  no  sleep  feels  good, 
It  is  not  that  I  think  of  such  lewd  words 
With  wine  still  hot  in  them.     Who  calls  it  spring? 
Simply  this  winter  plays  at  red  and  green. 
Clean  white  no  color  for  me,  did  they  say  ? 


176  ROSAMOND. 

I  never  loved  white  roses  much ;  but  see 
How  the  wind  drenches  the  low  lime-branches 
With  shaken  silver  in  the  rainiest  leaves. 
Mere  winter,  winter.     I  will  love  you  well, 
Sweet  Constance,  do  but  say  I  am  not  fair ; 
No  need  for  patience  if  I  be  not  fair, 
For  if  men  really  lie  to  call  me  fair 
He  need  not  come ;  I  pray  God  keep  him  close 
For  fear  he  come  and  see  I  am  not  fair. 
Can  you  not  speak,  not  say  if  this  be  true, 
That  I  may  cease  ?  come,  am  I  fair  or  no  ? 
Speak  your  pure  mind. 

Const.  Nay,  madam,  for  you  know 

Doubtless  it  was  delight  to  make  your  face 
And  rippled  soft  miraculous  gold  hair 
Over  the  touched  veins  of  most  tender  brows 
Meant  for  men's  lips  to  make  them  glad  of  God 
Who  gives  them  such  to  kiss. 

Ros.  Leave  off  my  praise, 

It  frets  me  flesh  and  all  as  sickness  doth 
Till  the  blood  wanes ;  yea,  and  quaint  news  to  hear, 
That  I  am  fair,  have  hair  strung  through  with  gold, 
Smooth  feet,  smooth  hands,  and  eyes  worth  pain  to  see  ! 
Why  once  the  king  spake  of  my  hair  like  this, 
"  As  though  rain  filled  and  stained  a  tress  of  corn 
Loose  i'  the  last  sheaf  of  many  slackened  sheaves ; 
Or  if"  (ay,  thus)  "one  blew  the  yellow  dust 
That  speckles  a  red  lily  off  both  cheeks 


ROSAMOND.  177 

Held  in  the  sun,  so  if  in  kissing  her 

I  let  the  wind  into  her  hair,  it  blows 

Thin  gold  back,  shows  the  redder  thread  of  it, 

Burnt  saffron-scented  " ;  some  faint  rhyme  of  his 

Tuned  round  and  colored  after  his  French  wise. 

Const.  You  learnt  such  sonnets  of  him  ?  —  A  man's 

step,— 

Ah,  that  girl's  binding  the  wet  tendrils  there 
Last  night  blew  over. 

Ros.  See,  at  my  hand's  end, 

Those  apple-flowers  beaten  on  a  heap, 
So  has  the  heavy  weather  trod  on  them. 
There  are  my  rhymes  all  spoilt  and  blown  with  wind, 
Broken  like  birds'  wings  blown  against  a  wall. 
Girl,  do  you  know  I  lived  so  quiet  once, 
Leaning  whole  days  in  a  warmed  side-window 
With  the  chin  cushioned  up  and  soft  vague  feet 
Thrust  out  to  sleep,  and  warm  sides  couched  for  ease 
Full  of  soft  blood,  pulsed  slow  with  happiness 
Such  fair  green  seasons  through,  with  dreams  that  lay 
Most  blossom-soft  between  the  lids,  —  and  love 
A  little  way  I  thought  above  my  brows, 
His  finger  touching  them ;  yea,  for  whole  months 
I  was  so  patient  to  serve  time  and  have 
Love's  mouth  at  last  set  suddenly  on  mine ; 
Abode  and  heard  the  blood  that  grew  in  me 
More  sweet,  and  the  days'  motion  in  my  ears 
Touched  audibly. 


178  ROSAMOND. 

Const.  This  was  a  gracious  time. 

Ros.   One  song  you  have,  I  pray  but  sing  me  that, 
I  taught  it  you ;  and  yet  I  like  it  not ; 
Trouveres  have  sweet  lips  with  a  bitter  heart, 
And  such  a  gracious  liar,  I  doubt,  wrote  this ; 
But  sing  it ;  it  shall  do  no  harm  to  hear. 

Const.   Sweet,  for  God's  love  I  bid  you  kiss  right  close 
On  mouth  and  cheek,  because  you  see  my  rose 

Has  died  that  got  no  kisses  of  the  rain ; 
So  will  I  sing  to  sweeten  my  sweet  mouth, 
So  will  I  braid  my  thickest  hair  to  smooth, 

And  then,  —  I  need  not  call  you  love  again. 
I  like  it  well  enough. 

Ros.  The  sick  sweet  in  it 

Taints  my  mouth  through.  —  Could  the  heat  make  me 

sleep ! 

My  feet  ache  like  my  head.  —  Doth  this  I  say 
Tire  you  so  hard  you  cannot  answer  me  ? 

Const.   Madam,  I  would  my  words  were  wine  to  drink 
That  might  heal  all  your  better  sense  and  blood ; 
But  some  hurts  ache  in  the  bone  past  oil  and  wine, 
And  I  do  think  the  words  I  heard  of  you 
Burn  you  thus  hot  only  with  hate  of  shame.      ^ 

Ros.   Shame  ?  who  said  shame  ?  am  I  so  sick  of  love. 
That  shame  can  hurt  me  ?  there  's  no  shame  in  the  world 
Whose  wound  would  hurt  more  than  too  hard  a  kiss 
If  love  kept  by  the  face  of  blinking  shame 
To  kill  the  pain  with  patience.     Am  I  his  wife 


ROSAMOND.  179 

That  it  should  fret  me  to  be  trod  by  shame  ? 
Ah,  child,  I  know  that  were  my  lord  at  right 
And  shame  stood  on  this  left  with  eager  mouth 
For  some  prepared  scorn,  —  I  could  but  turn 
Saying,  —  lo,  here  this  hand  to  cover  me, 
Lo,  this  to  plait  my  hair  and  warm  my  lips  ; 
I  could  well  pity  thee,  dull  snake,  poor  fool, 
Faint  shame,  too  feeble  to  discredit  me. 

Const.   I  would  I  had  never  come  hither. 

Ros.  Are  you  tired  ? 

But  I  seem  shameful  to  you,  shameworthy, 
Contemnable  of  good  women,  being  so  bad, 
So  bad  as  I  am.     Yea,  would  God,  would  God, 
I  had  kept  my  face  from  this  contempt  of  yours. 
Insolent  custom  would  not  anger  me 
So  as  you  do ;  more  clean  are  you  than  I, 
Sweeter  for  gathering  of  the  grace  of  God 
To  perfume  some  accomplished  work  in  heaven  ? 
I  do  not  use  to  scorn,  stay  pure  of  hate, 
Seeing  how  myself  am  scorned  unworthily ; 
But  anger  here  so  takes  me  in  the  throat 
I  would  speak  now  for  fear  it  strangle  me. 
Here,  let  me  feel  your  hair  and  hands  and  face; 
I  see  not  flesh  is  holier  than  flesh, 
Or  blood  than  blood  more  choicely  qualified 
That  scorn  should  live  between  them.     Better  am  I 
Than  many  women ;  you  are  not  over  fair, 
Nor  delicate  with  some  exceeding  good 


i  So  ROSAMOND. 

In  the  sweet  flesh ;  you  have  no  much  tenderer  soul 

Than  love  is  moulded  out  of  for  God's  use 

Who  wrought  our  double  need ;  you  are  not  so  choice 

That  in  the  golden  kingdom  of  your  eyes 

All  coins  should  melt  for  service.     But  I  that  am 

Part  of  the  perfect  witness  for  the  world 

How  good  it  is ;  I  chosen  in  God's  eyes 

To  fill  the  lean  account  of  under  men, 

The  lank  and  hunger-bitten  ugliness 

Of  half  his  people ;  I  who  make  fair  heads 

Bow,  saying,  "  Though  we  be  in  no  wise  fair 

We  have  touched  all  beauty  with  our  eyes,  we  have 

Some  relish  in  the  hand,  and  in  the  lips 

Some  breath  of  it,"  because  they  saw  me  once  ; 

I  whose  curled  hair  was  as  a  strong  staked  net 

To  take  the  hunters  and  the  hunt,  and  bind 

Faces  and  feet  and  hands  ;  a  golden  gin 

Wherein  the  tawny-lidded  lions  fell, 

Broken  at  ankle  ;  I  that  am  yet,  ah  yet, 

And  shall  be  till  the  worm  hath  share  in  me, 

Fairer  than  love  or  the  clean  truth  of  God, 

More  sweet  than  sober  customs  of  kind  use 

That  shackle  pain  and  stablish  temperance ; 

I  that  have  roses  in  my  name,  and  make 

All  flowers  glad  to  set  their  color  by ; 

I  that  have  held  a  land  between  twin  lips 

And  turned  large  England  to  a  little  kiss  ; 

God  thinks  not  of  me  as  contemptible, 


ROSAMOND.  181 

And  that  you  think  me  even  a  smaller  thing 
Than  your  own  goodness  and  slight  name  of  good, 
Your  special,  thin,  particular  repute  ; 
I  would  some  mean  could  be  but  clear  to  me 
Not  to  contemn  you. 

Const.  Madam,  I  pray  you  think 

I  had  no  will  to  whet  you  to  such  edge  ; 
I  might  wish  merely  to  be  clear  of  pain 
Such  as  I  have  to  see  you  weep,  —  to  see 
That  wasp  contempt  feed  on  your  colored  rind 
Whose  kernel  is  so  spiced  with  change  of  sweet ; 
No  more,  I  swear  to  you  by  God  no  more. 

Ros.   I  will  believe  you.     But  speak  truly  now 
As  you  are  fair,  I  say  you  are  fair  too, 
Would  you  be  wiser  than  I  was  with  him  ? 
A  king  to  kiss  the  maiden  from  your  lips, 
Fill  you  with  fire  as  water  fills  the  sea, 
Hands  in  your  hair  and  eyes  against  your  face,  — 
Ay,  more  than  this,  this  need  not  strike  at  heart, 
But  say  that  love  had  bound  you  like  a  dog, 
Leashed  your  loose  thoughts  to  his  uncertain  feet, 
Then  would  you  be  much  better  than  such  are 
As  leave  their  soul  upon  two  alien  lips 
Like  a  chance  word  of  talk  they  use  for  breath  ? 
O  girl,  that  hast  no  bitter  touch  of  love, 
No  more  assurance  of  it  than  report 
Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  blame,  —  I  bid  you  know 
Love  is  much  wiser  than  we  twain,  more  strong 


1 82  ROSAMOND. 

Than  men  who  hold  the  pard  by  throat  and  jaw. 
Love's  signet-brand  stamps  through  the  gold  o'  the  years, 
Severs  the  gross  and  chastens  out  the  mould. 
.God  has  no  plague  so  perilous  as  love, 
And  no  such  honey  for  the  lips  of  Christ 
To  purge  them  glean  of  gall  and  sweet  for  heaven. 
It  was  to  fit  the  naked  limbs  of  love 
He  wrought  and  clothed  the  world  with  ordinance. 
Yea,  let  no  wiser  woman  hear  me  say 
I  think  that  whoso  shall  unclothe  his  soul 
Of  all  soft  raiment  colored  custom  weaves, 
And  choose  before  the  cushion-work  of  looms 
Stones  rough  at  edge  to  stab  the  tender  side, 
Put  honor  off  and  patience  and  respect 
And  veils  and  relics  of  remote  esteem 
To  turn  quite  bare  into  large  arms  of  love, 
God  loves  him  better  than  those  bitter  fools 
Whom  ignorance  makes  clean,  and  bloodless  use 
Keeps  colder  than  their  dreams. 

Const.  It  may  be  true, 

I  know  not ;  only  to  stay  maiden-souled 
Seems  worthier  to  me. 

Ros.  Doth  it  so  ?    Ah  you 

That  tie  the  spirit  closer  to  the  flesh 
To  keep  both  sweet,  it  seems  again  to  me 
You  kill  the  gracious  secret  of  it,  and  mar 
The  wholesome  heaven  with  scent  of  ruined  things 
That  breed  mere  flies  for  issue.     Ay,  and  love 


ROSAMOND.  183 

That  makes  the  daily  flesh  an  altar-cup 

To  carry  tears  and  rarest  blood  within 

And  touch  pained  lips  with  feast  of  sacrament,  — 

So  sweet  it  is,  God  made  it  sweet !    Poor  words, 

Dull  words,  I  have  compassion  on  them,  girl, 

Their  babble  falls  so  far  this  side  of  love 

Significance  faints  in  them.     This  I  know, 

When  first  I  had  his  arms  across  my  head 

And  had  his  mouth  upon  my  heated  hair 

And  his  sharp  kisses  mixed  into  my  blood, 

I  hung  athirst  between  his  hands,  and  said, 

Sweet,  and  so  sweet !  for  both  mine  eyes  were  weak, 

Possessed  with  rigorous  prophecy  of  tears 

To  drench  the  lids  past  sleeping,  and  both  lips 

Stark  as  twain  rims  of  a  sweet  cup  drunk  out. 

Const.   My  first  word  serves  me  here  ;  this  may  be  true. 

Ros.   Say  this,  you  have  a  tender  woman's  face, 
Do  you  love  children  ?  does  it  touch  your  blood 
To  see  God's  word  finished  in  a  child's  face 
For  us  to  touch  and  handle  ?  seems  it  sweet 
To  have  such  things  in  the  world  to  hold  and  kiss  ? 

Const.  Yea,  surely. 

Ros.  Yea  ?  then  be  most  sure  of  this, 

Love  doth  so  well  surpass  and  foil  the  sense 
That  makes  us  pleasure  out  of  children  seen, 
That  I  being  severed  from  the  lips  of  mine 
Feel  never  insufficient  sight,  or  loss 
Of  the  sweet  natural  aim  or  use  in  eyes 


1 84  ROSAMOND. 

Because  they  are  not ;  but  for  only  this  ; 
That  seldom  in  grave  passages  of  time 
Such  gracious  red  possesses  the  full  day 
As  leaves  me  light  to  look  into  his  face 
Who  made  me  children. 

Const.  Doth  he  love  you  as  well  ? 

Then  two  such  loves  were  never  wrought  in  flesh 
Since  the  sun  moved. 

Ros.  Ah  girl,  you  fail  fair  truth ; 

He  doth  love  me,  would  let  me  take  his  name 
To  soil,  his  face  to  set  my  feet  upon  ; 
But  love  is  no  such  new  device  we  need 
Boast  over  that.     Nay,  are  you  dull  indeed  ? 
All  stories  are  so  lined  and  sewn  with  love, 
Ravel  that  gold  and  broidered  thread  in  them, 
You  rend  across  the  mid  and  very  seam. 
Yea,  I  am  found  the  woman  in  all  tales, 
The  face  caught  always  in  the  story's  face  ; 
I  Helen,  holding  Paris  by  the  lips, 
Smote  Hector  through  the  head ;  I  Cressida 
So  kissed  men's  mouths  that  they  went  sick  or  mad, 
Stung  right  at  brain  with  me  ;  I  Guenevere 
Made  my  queen's  eyes  so  precious  and  my  hair 
Delicate  with  such  gold  in  its  soft  ways 
And  my  mouth  honeyed  so  for  Launcelot, 
Out  of  good  things  he  chose  his  golden  soul 
To  be  the  pearlwork  of  my  treasuring  hands, 
And  so  our  love  foiled  God  ;  I  that  was  these 


ROSAMOND.  185 

And  am  no  sweeter  now  than  Rosamond 

With  most  full  heart  and  mirth  give  my  lord  up 

Body's  due  breath  and  soul's  forefashioned  peace 

To  pay  love  with  ;  what  should  I  do  but  this 

That  am  so  loved  ?    Ay,  you  might  catch  me  here 

Saying  his  French  wife  smites  my  love  across 

With  soft  strange  lips ;  yea,  I  know  too  she  may 

Pluck  skirts  of  afterthought,  kiss  pity's  feet, 

Marry  remembrance  with  a  broken  ring ; 

No  time  so  famished,  no  such  idle  place 

As  spares  her  room  next  his  ;  a  wife,  his  wife,  — 

If  I  be  no  king's  wife,  prithee  what  need 

That  she  should  steal  the  word  to  dress  her  name 

That  suits  my  name  as  well  ?  take  love,  take  all ; 

What  shall  keep  hunger  from  the  word  of  wife  ? 

What  praise,  if  reputation  wear  thin  shoes, 

Shall  keep  the  rain  from  honored  women's  feet  ? 

Wife,  wife,  —  I  get  no  music  out  of  wife  ; 

I  see  no  reason  between  me  and  wife 

But  what  breath  mars  with  making  ;  yea,  poor  fool, 

She  gets  the  harsh  bran  of  my  corn  to  eat. 

Const.  Men  call  the  queen  an  adder  underfoot, 
Dangerous  obedience  in  the  trodden  head ; 
I  pray  you  heed  your  feet  in  walking  here. 

Ros.   Fear  is  a  cushion  for  the  feet  of  love, 
Painted  with  colors  for  his  ease-taking ; 
Sweet  red,  and  white  with  wasted  blood,  and  blue 
Most  flower-like,  and  the  summer-spouse'd  green 


1 86  ROSAMOND. 

And  sea-betrothed  soft  purple  and  burnt  black. 
All  colored  forms  of  fear,  omen  and  change, 
Sick  prophecy  and  rumors  lame  at  heel, 
Anticipations  and  astrologies, 
Perilous  inscription  and  recorded  note, 
All  these  are  covered  in  the  skirt  of  love 
And  when  he  shakes  it  these  are  tumbled  forth, 
Beaten  and  blown  i'  the  dusty  face  of  the  air. 
Were  she  ten  queens  and  every  queen  his  wife, 
I  could  not  find  out  fear.     Where  shame  is  hid 
I  can  but  guess  when  patience  leaves  me  sick  ; 
But  where  the  lank  bat  fear  is  huddled  in 
Doth  no  conjecture  smell. 

Const.  Mine  holds  yet  out, 

Seeing  the  queen  is  reconciled  :  their  son 
Ties  peace  between  both  hands  ;  she  will  do  much 
To  move  him  from  his  care  set  over  you. 

Ros.   I  care  not ;  let  her  bind  him  heel  to  head, 
So  she  may  keep  him,  clip  and  kiss  him  so. 
For  me,  I  will  go  in  ;  no  doubt  he  shall ' 
Be  here  to-night ;  I  were  best  sleep  till  then 
And  have  the  sweet  of  sleep  about  my  face 
To  touch  his  senses  with  ;  for  he  shall  come, 
I  have  no  doubt  of  him  but  he  shall  come. 
Kiss  me  yet,  sweet,  I  would  not  anger  you.  [Exit. 

Const.  Yea,  I  taste  through  this  way  of  yours  ;  so  fair 
Her  sin  may  serve  as  well  as  holy  ways, 
Shall  not  it  so  ?     Let  the  queen  make  some  tale, 


ROSAMOND.  187 

A  silk  clue  taken  in  the  king's  spur's  gold, 

No  fear  lest  I  be  taken  ;  and  what  harm 

To  catch  her  feet  i'  the  dragnets  of  her  sin 

That  i  j  so  full  of  words,  eats  wicked  bread, 

Shares  portion  with  shame's  large  and  common  cups, 

Feeds  at  lewd  tables,  girds  loose  garments  on  ? 

For  all  this  brave  breath  wasted  out  of  heart, 

I  doubt  this  frets  her  ;  verily  I  think 

Some  such  pain  only  makes  her  gibe  at  me  — 

Fair  fool,  with  her  soft  shameful  mouth  !  at  least 

I  keep  clean  hands  to  do  God's  offices 

And  serve  him  with  my  noose  upon  her  neck.  [Exit. 


II.     The  Palace  at  Shene. 
QUEEN  ELEANOR  and  ROBERT  DE  BOUCHARD. 

Queen  Eleanor. 
"\7EA,  true  for  such  ;  but  he  and  I  were  old 

Already,  though  men  say  his  hair  keeps  black, 
Ay,  black-bright  hair,  touched  deep  as  poppies'  black 
They  cover  up  in  scarlet ;  that 's  my  lord ; 
Sweet  color,  with  a  thought  of  black  at  heart. 
Some  flowers,  they  say,  if  one  pluck  deep  enough, 
Bleed  as  you  gather. 

Bench.  That  means  love,  I  think  ; 

You  gather  it  and  there 's  the  blood  at  root 


1 88  ROSAMOND. 

Qu.  El.  How  much,  my  Bouchard  ?  let  your  beard  alone ; 
You  could  well  strike  me,  I  believe  at  heart ; 
God  help  me  that  am  troubled  with  you  so  ! 
Feel  both  hands  now  ;  the  blood  's  alive  there,  beats 
And  flutters  in  the  fingers  and  the  palms. 

Bouck.   True,  hot  enough  ;  what  will  you  do  ?  the  king 
Comes  back  to  take  farewell  and  hold  his  way 
With  some  thin  train  that  gathers  Londonwards  ; 
Thence  ere  he  take  ship  shall  my  lord  make  way 
Among  the  westward  alder-meadows,  thrust 
Between  soft  Godstow  poplars  and  warm  grass 
Right  into  Woodstock  and  pleached  rose-places  ; 
Shall  the  queen  follow  lest  he  lack  a  face 
For  welcome,  and  sweet  words  to  kiss  i'  the  lip  ? 
I  would  go  with  you  lest  some  harm  should  fall. 

Qu.  El.   No  need,  for  would  God  let  them  hurt  me  ? 

Well, 
I  would  fain  see  the  rose  grow,  Robert. 

Bouch.  Being  fair, 

A  woman  is  worth  pains  to  see. 

Qu.  El.  Being  fair. 

Sweet  stature  hath  she  and  fair  eyes,  men  say  ; 
I  am  but  black,  with  hair  that  keeps  the  braid, 
And  my  face  hurt  and  bitten  of  the  sun 
Past  medicine  of  all  waters  ;  so  his  tooth 
Bites  hard  in  France,  and  strikes  the  brown  grape  hot, 
Makes  the  wine  leap,  no  skin-room  spares  for  white,  — 
I  know  well  now  ;  the  woman  has  that  white, 


ROSAMOND.  189 

His  water-weed,  his  golden  girl-flower 

With  lank  sapped  stem  and  green  rind  moist  at  core.    * 

Ay,  gold  !  but  no  crown's  gold  to  all  this  hair, 

That 's  hard,  my  Robert. 

Bouch.  See  how  men  will  lie  ; 

They  call  you  hard,  this  people,  sour  to  bite  ; 
Now  I  will  trust  your  sweetness,  do  but  say 
You  will  not  touch  her  if  I  get  you  through. 

Qu.  El.    I  will  not  hurt  her,   Bouchard  ;    for   God's 

love, 

Help  me  ;  I  swear  by  God  I  will  not  hurt, 
I  will  not  —  Ah,  sweet  Robert,  bear  me  through, 
Do  not  make  smiles  and  never  move  your  mouth  : 
When  we  ride  back  I  will  do  anything, 
Wear  man's  dress,  take  your  horse  to  water,  —  yea, 
Kiss  clean  your  feet  of  any  travelling  dust,  — 
Yea,  what  your  page  has  never  done  I  will 
For  mere  love,  Robert,  for  pure  love  of  you ; 
Nay,  if  I  meant  to  stab  or  poison  her, 
You  might  so  chide  me,  Bouchard,  bid  me  back, 
Not  now  !     I  will  not  hurt  her ;  there  again. 
Kiss  me  !     I  love  you  as  a  man  loves  God  ! 
Be  sorry  for  me ! 

Bouch.  Ah  well,  well ;  no  doubt 

But  my  Lord  wrought  me  with  a  tender  hand, 
Spoiled  half  a  man  in  making ;  there,  sit,  sit. 
I  felt  your  teeth  come  through  that  bitter  kiss. 
Sit  now  and  talk  ;  it  is  my  service,  madam, 


IQO  ROSAMOND. 

A  man's  good  service  merely,  nothing  else, 
To  ride  for  you,  to  ride  with  you,  —  not  more. 

Qu.  El.   I  have  some  help  yet  of  this  Bouchard,  then  ? 
See  now,  sir,  you  are  knight  and  gentleman ; 
I  pray  you  that  your  service  fail  not  here. 
For  wears  a  man  rich  office  and  rich  name 
Nearer  than  wife  about  him  ?  so  the  king 
Wears  me ;  and  so  I  bid  you  serve  him,  sir. 
I  bid  you ?, rather  I  take  prayer  to  me 
And  catch  your  faith  with  prayer ;  right  meek  I  am, 
Chide  with  me,  Bouchard,  if  I  be  not  meek ; 
No  child  was  ever  so  milk-mouthed,  no  bird 
That  picks  out  seed  from  scented  and  pink  palms. 
To  say  soft  words  is  seasonable  ;  and  good 
To  think  of  all  men  smoothly ;  else  a  sin 
May  sting  you  suddenly  —  as  him  it  stung  — 
Hell's  heat  burn  through  that  whorish  mouth  of  hers  ! 

Bouch.   Madam ! 

Qu.  EL  And  God  that  knows  I  weep  ! 

Bouch.  Keeps  count 

(The  monks'  song  says  it)  of  your  flitting  times, 
Seals  all  your  tears  up  safely,  doth  he  not  ? 
Hark,  there  's  one  singing. 

Qu.  El.  But  no  monk  this  time. 

Look,  in  the  garden  by  the  red  wall's  turn, 
The  king's  fool  under  covert,  and  steals  fruit ; 
Pluck  such  raw  pears  and  spoil  so  bad  a  song, 
That  breaks  my  patience ;  a  lewd  witch-burden ! 


ROSAMOND.  191 

One  sings  outside  :  — 

This  was  written  in  God's  name  ; 

The  Devil  kissed  me 
Mouth  on  mouth  with  little  shame 

Under  a  big  tree. 
He  fed  me  full  with  good  meat, 

The  best  there  might  be ; 
He  gave  me  black  wine  and  sweet 
Red  fruit  and  honey-meal  to  eat ; 

Domine,  laudamus  te. 

He  made  straight  the  lame 

And  fat  he  made  me  ; 
So  he  gat  good  game, 

Kisses  three  by  three. 
He  was  shapen  like  a  carl, 

A  swine's  foot  had  he  ; 
Like  a  dog's  his  mouth  did  snarl, 
His  hands  were  foul  with  loam  and  marl ; 

Domine,  laudamus  te. 

Qu.  El.  Eh,  what  lewd  words  so  mutter  in  his  teeth  ? 
I  hear  no  good  ones  ;  bid  them  see  him  whipped. 

Outside  :  — 

A  bat  came  out  of  heaven 

That  had  a  flat  snout ; 
A  loaf  withouten  leaven, 

Crumbs  thereof  fell  out ; 


192  ROSAMOND. 

The  Devil  thrust  up  with  his  thumb, 

Said  tho  to  me, 

Lo  you,  there  shall  be  left  no  crumb 
When  I  and  you  in  heaven  come ; 

Domine,  laudamus  te. 

There  were  many  leaves  thick 

Grown  well  over  me ; 
A  big  branch  of  a  little  stick 

Is  this  greene"  tree  ; 
He  showed  me  brave  things  to  wear, 

Pleasant  things  to  see ; 
A  good  game  had  we  twain  there, 
The  leave's  weren  broad  and  fair ; 

Domine,  laudamus  te. 

Qu.  EL   Bid  the  grooms  whip  him ;  even  a  dog  like  that 
Can  be  a  fret  to  me,  a  thorn-prick.    Ah, 
Such  beasts  as  feed  about  us,  and  we  make 
Communion  of  their  breath !     I  am  sick  at  him. 
Why,  my  sweet  friend,  I  pray  you  of  your  love 
Do  me  some  service. 

Bouch.  Nay,  the  fool 's  no  harm ; 

Let  be  a  little ;  service  was  your  word  ? 
See  now,  he  creeps  by  nodding  his  fool's  head, 
With  back  and  shoulders  rounded  for  the  sun  ; 
Let  the  poor  beast  be  ;  't  is  no  worse  than  dogs 
When  the  rain  makes  them  howl,  soaks  to  the  bone 


ROSAMOND.  193 

As  he  is  sodden  through  the  wits  of  him. 
Now,  sweet,  sit  closer,  talk  with  me  ;  you  said 
Service  ?  what  service  must  I  do  ?  the  king, 
It 's  the  king  has  me  at  his  heels,  a  dog 
For  service  ;  the  best  work  one  does  for  love  ; 
As  I  do  service  for  my  lord  the  king. 

Qu.  El.  Ay,  for  you  love  him  ;  I  have  learnt  you,  sir, 
Can  say  my  Bouchard  through  and  turn  the  leaf. 
Are  you  his  servant,  lackey,  chattel,  purse, 
The  sheath  where  he  's  the  hilt  ?  you  love  him ;  eh  ? 

Bouch.   Service  and  love  make  lordship  stable  ;  well, 
Suppose  I  love  him  ;  there  be  such  about 
As  would  stoop  shoulder  and  fit  knee  to  bear 
Worse  weight  than  I  do,  only  for  pure  love,  — 
Clean  love,  that  washes  out  so  much  ! 

Qu.  El.  Ah,  sir, 

They  make  you  laugh,  then  ? 

Bouch.  Well,  not  loud ;  a  brush 

That  strikes  one's  lips  with  laughter  as  a  fly 
Touches  a  fruit  and  drops  clean  off,  you  see. 
Men  love  so,  pay  them  wages  (ah,  not  gold, 
No  gold  of  course,  but  credit,  name,  safe  room, 
Broad  space  to  sun  the  back  and  cram  the  sides 
And  shake  fat  elbows  and  grow  longer  beards,  — 
There 's  all  one  wants,  now)  pay  them  such,  I  say  — 
Lo,  sir,  our  friend  hath  never  wrought  for  that, 
That  he  should  take  it ;  love  holds  otherwhere 
Than  by  the  purfled  corners  of  your  sleeve, 

9  M 


194  ROSAMOND. 

Eats  no  such  food  as  keeps  your  pages  warm 
Nor  wears  such  raiment. 

Qu.  El.  Ay,  my  Bouchard,  so  ? 

I  've  measure  of  you  somewhere  ;  why  serve  me  ? 
Why  sweat  and  crawl  to  get  me  such  a  rose 
And  save  my  gloves  one  thorn  ? 

Bench.  Nay,  I  know  not ; 

Find  some  clean  reason  for  a  miry  foot 
Or  tell  me  why  God  makes  the  sun  get  up 
Pricked  out  like  a  tame  beast,  I  '11  answer  you 
Why  I  am  pleased  to  be  so  serviceable. 
But  why  our  friend's  lip  tastes  a  sweet  therein 
Who  serves  for  honesty  ?  this  were  more  hard  to  say. 
Still  the  truth  stands,  he  '11  work  some  three  good  hours 
Outside  your  hireling ;  yea,  that 's  much  for  him  ; 
And  all  to  get  such  dog's  wage  as  a  rag 
To  wrap  some  naked  wound's  unseemliness 
Caught  serving  you,  lest  the  sight  turn  your  blood 
And  swell  your  sick  throat  out  at  him. 

Qu.  EL  No  more  ? 

I  doubt  you  do  belie  both  sides  of  love. 

Bouch.   But  ask  him  rather  ;  there 's  Jean  Becqueval, 
King  Louis  has  him  throttled  up  in  steel 
That  was  a  strong  knight  once,  and  had  broad  bones 
To  get  the  mail  shut  over,  not  so  tight. 
A  keen  sword,  madam,  makes  blunt  work  in  time, 
For  this  man  struck  two  blows  for  you  or  three 
iSame  years  back,  when  your  courtiers  snarled  and  spat ; 


ROSAMOND.  195 

Who  might  have  children  beat  him  on  his  mouth 
And  could  not  shake  about  the  chin  for  spite 
To  save  their  plucking  at  his  beard.     Poor  fool, 
I  dare  well  say  he  hates  you  not  the  least, 
Most  like  would  bite  now  for  you  with  his  teeth, 
Since  both  hands  could  not  pull  the  scabbard  straight 
Or  loose  the  band  o'  the  visor  and  not  let 
The  steel  snap  on  his  fingers. 

Qu.  El.  If  you  say  truth, 

I  swear  by  God's  blood  I  am  shamed  in  it, 
Shamed  out  of  face  ;  but  I  misdoubt  you  lie 
Your  old  hard  way,  lie  perfectly.     Be  good, 
Say  you  did  lie. 

Bouch.  I  have  said  short  of  truth. 

Nay,  now  you  find  this  wound  in  him  of  yours, 
Should  you  fall  weeping  ?  ask  our  lord  so  much ; 
He  '11  swear  by  God's  face,  finger  his  own  beard, 
And  twist  a  hawk's  foot  round  or  hurt  its  neck, 
And  say  by  God  such  things  are  pitiful. 
Come,  is  your  friend  less  pinched  for  his  good  will  ? 
You  know  he  would  not,  set  things  broadly  down, 
Sweep  this  cast  up  and  leave  him  room  to  throw, 
Change  his  soiled  coat  to  be  set  clean  in  gold ; 
He  would  just  choose  to  serve  you  his  best  way 
Something  beyond  my  warrant.     Why,  in  France 
Last  March  the  king's  friend,  Guerrat  of  Sallieres, 
—  A  good  knight,  —  has  that  long  mouth  like  a  toad's, 
And  eats  a  woman  like  a  grape  with  it,  — 


196  ROSAMOND. 

(Spits  the  husk  out  I  mean  and  strains  the  core) 
Spake  thus  to  me  :  "  Sir  Robert,  there  's  a  man 
Lies  flat  with  rust  upon  his  lips  to  chew 
Who  while  your  Queen  touched  Paris  with  her  feet 
Would  have  plucked  out  his  hairs  for  cushion-stuff 
To  save  her  shoes  a  sprinkle  of  weak  rain,  — 
Burnt  out  his  eyes  a-sputter  in  the  head 
If  she  misliked  their  color." 

Qu.  El.  Not  Sallieres  ? 

Bouch.    It  was  my  question ;  at  which  word  thrown  out 
His  head  went  sideways  as  a  big  fish  flaps 
And  shoves  with  head  and  body,  showing  white 
I'  the  black  oil  of  sea- water  before  storm 
(You  take  such  off-shore  with  sides  weltering) 
And  the  cheeks  got  quick  twinkles  of  eased  flesh 
And  the  chin  laughed  :  "  By  Mary's  hand,"  he  said, 
"  I  think  I  would  not." 

Qu.  El.  Ah,  the  fool  he  was  ! 

Is  he  grown  fat  ?  he  must  be  fat  by  this. 

Bouch.   I  held  to  him  ;  what  name  and  ways  and  work, 
Where  the  man  hid  ;  whereat  my  Guerrat  rolls 
And  chatters,  —  "  By  the  milk  of  Pilate's  nurse 
And  by  the  sleeve  that  wiped  king  Herod's  beard, 
I  hope  the  place  be  something  worse  than  hell, 
Or  I  shall  fare  the  worse  next  world,  by  God  ! " 

Qu.  El.  What  noise  runs  towards  us  ?  is  the  king  past 

Thames 
Think  you,  by  this  ?  —  Take  this  one  word  of  me  ; 


ROSAMOND.  197 

Albeit  I  lay  no  heavy  thought  on  it 

Lest  pain  unmake  me,  hold  this  truth  of  mine, 

Sir  Robert,  which  your  swordsmen  and  blank  wits, 

I  doubt,  would  feel  for  half  one's  life  and  miss  ; 

I  had  sooner  fare  as  doth  this  Becqueval 

Than  as  I  fare  ;  yea,  if  a  man  will  weep, 

Let  him  weep  here.     God  is  no  good  to  me, 

Nor  any  man  i'  the  world ;  I  have  no  love 

And  no  smooth  hour  in  those  twelve  pricks  of  plague 

That  smite  my  blood  each  once  a  day.     Nay,  go  ; 

Do  me  some  greeting  to  my  lord.     Farewell. 

[Exit  BOUCHARD. 

I  shall  find  time  to  hate  you  ;  yea,  I  do 
Hate  him  past  speech.     Let  me  just  cool  my  head 
And  gather  in  some  breath  to  face  the  king  — 
I  am  quite  stilled. 

Enter  King  HENRY. 
Fair  days  upon  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.    How  does  the  queen  ?  —  Three,  —  not  four 

provinces 

To  shut  one's  hand  on.  —  Are  you  well  ?  —  next  month 
My  face  at  Paris  and  his  hands  in  mine 
Touch  service  ;  two,  three  provinces  at  most ; 
I  must  have  more. 

Qu.  El.  I  thank  you,  well  enough. 

How  doth  my  Paris  ?  —  That  means  ill  to  me, 
That  beat  of  his  two  fingers  on  the  cheek. 
Will  Bouchard  make  no  liar,  does  one  know  ? 


198  ROSAMOND. 

K.  Hen.   Fair  news  ;  our  Louis  to  the  throat  in  steel, 
And  cannot  clear  his  saddle  at  a  leap, 
But  slips  and  sticks  there  as  he  did  years  back, 
Not  in  the  saddle,  but  across  a  bed 
His  feet  in  time  drew  clear  of  and  made  room. 

Qu.  El.   Made  room  for  you  to  slide  between  and  thrust 
Across  the  pillows  with  a  sideways  head 
To  warm  about  the  corner  where  his  feet 
Were  thrust  out  late  ;  so  God  keep  heat  for  it 
To  please  you  always  ! 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  not  best  at  swords, 

Good  Louis  ;  I  was  eased  with  swinging  steel 
In  thick  fields  under  lusty  months  of  sun  ; 
He  would  play  blind,  wring  back  my  hand  in  his, 
Fall  in  hard  thought.     But  see  now ;  have  I  not 
A  dozen  French  heads  broken  through  the  neck 
Hung  at  my  sleeve  here,  madam,  threes  and  threes  ? 
Guy  d'He'ricourt  and  Guerrat  of  Sallieres, 
Denis  of  Gordes,  Peter  of  the  March, 
I  have  their  tongues  shut  with  gold  coins  of  mine 
To  seal  the  lips  back ;  Jacques  Becqueval 
Shows  teeth  to  nibble ;  if  these  fail  me  quite, 
I  '11  say  we  have  played  at  luck  with  God  and  lost 
By  some  trick's  foil ;  being  no  such  fools  of  his 
As  chew  the  lazy  purpose  with  their  teeth, 
Eat  and  wax  full  and  laugh  till  hair  falls  out ; 
Why,  all  the  world  lives  without  sleeping-whiles, 
God  makes  and  mars  and  turns  not  weak  one  whit, 


ROSAMOND.  199 

But  we  must  find  some  roost  to  perch  and  blink 
And  wag  thick  chins  at  the  world  ;  I  hate  all  men 
That  have  large  faces  with  dead  eyes  in  them 
And  good  full  fronts  of  fooL 

Qu.  EL  Am  I  worth  words  ? 

K.  Hen.   So  quick,  so  quick  !  are  you  true  wife  to  me  ? 

Qu.  El.   I  praise  God  for  it,  how  loyal  I  have  lived 
Your  soul  shall  answer. 

K.  Hen.  What,  I  see  the  blood 

That  goes  about  the  heart  and  makes  you  hot,  — 
French  blood,  south  blood  !  I  would  not  tax  you  far, 
But  spare  my  Louis  ;  he  did  no  such  wrong 
As  I  did  when  I  let  you  slip  my  hand 
In  a  new  French  glove  you  had  sewn  with  gold. 

Qu.  El.   This  is  a  courteous  holiness  of  yours 
That  smites  so  in  my  face ;  have  you  not  heard 
Of  men  whose  swerved  feet  lie  delicate 
In  common  couches,  with  beds  made  to  them 
Where  priests  shed  no  fair  water  ?     Nay,  this  breath 
You  chide  me  with  makes  treason  to  your  breath 
That  was  my  promise  ;  if  I  be  your  wife, 
The  unclean  witness  of  my  well-doing 
Is  your  own  sin. 

K.  Hen.  This  is  a  fevered  will 

That  you  seem  drunk  withal. 

Qu.  El.  I  bond-broken  ? 

You  lay  your  taint  my  way  ;  blush  now  a  little, 
Pay  but  some  blood  ;  do  but  defend  yourself ; 


200  ROSAMOND. 

It  is  a  double  poison  in  revolt 
When  it  deserts  the  bare  rebellion 
To  be  half  honest 

K.  Hen.  You  are  not  wise. 

Qu.  El.  I  would  not : 

For  wisdom  smites  awry,  when  foolishness 
Keeps  the  clean  way. 

K.  Hen.  Have  you  done  yet  with  me  ? 

Qu.  EL   I  thrust  your  bags  out  with  round  cheeks  of  gold 
That  were  my  people's  ;  thickened  with  men  the  sides 
Of  your  sick,  lean,  and  barren  enterprise  ; 
Made  capable  the  hunger  of  your  state 
With  subsidies  of  mine  own  fruitfulness  ; 
Enriched  the  ragged  ruin  of  your  plans 
With  purple  patched  into  the  serge  and  thread 
Of  your  low  state ;  you  were  my  pensioner ; 
There  's  not  a  taste  of  England  in  your  breath 
But  I  did  pay  for. 

K.  Hen.  Better  I  had  never  seen  you 

Than  wear  such  words  unchallenged.     You  are  my  wife  ; 
I  would  the  name  were  lost  with  mine  to  it. 
I  put  no  weight  upon  you  of  the  shame 
That  is  my  badge  in  you  ;  the  carriage  of  it 
Pays  for  your  gold. 

Qu.  El.  Ay,  you  will  tax  not  me, 

Being  made  so  whole  of  your  allegiance,  you, 
Perfect  as  patience  ?  why,  the  cause,  this  cause 
(Be  it  what  you  say,  — but  saying  it  you  lie, 


ROSAMOND.  201 

Are  simply  liar,  my  lord !)  the  shame  would  prick 
A  very  dog  to  motion  of  such  blood 
As  takes  revenge  for  the  shame  done,  the  shame 
I'  the  body,  in  the  sufferance  of  a  blow, — 
But  you  are  patient. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  not  find  your  sense. 

Qu.  El.   Nay,  I  think  so  ;  when  you  do  understand, 
Praise  me  a  little  then.     For  this  time,  sir, 
I  have  no  such  will  to  trouble  you  ;  and  here, 
Even  here  shall  leave-taking  atone  us  twain ; 
Therefore  farewell.     When  I  am  dead,  my  lord, 
I  pray  you  praise  me  for  my  sufferance  ; 
You  see  I  chide  not ;  nay,  I  say  no  word ; 
I  will  put  seals  like  iron  on  my  mouth 
Lest  it  revolt  at  me,  or  any  shame 
Push  some  worse  phrase  in  than  "  God  keep  you,  sir."  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.   I  am  her  fool ;  no  word  to  get  her  dumb  ? 
I  am  like  the  tales  of  Cornish  Mark  long  since, 
To  be  so  baffled.     Well,  being  this  way  eased, 
I  need  not  see  her  anger  twice  i'  the  eyes  • 
Get  me  a  hawk  to  ride  with  presently.  [Exit. 


202  ROSAMOND. 

III.    At  Woodstock. 
King  HENRY  and  ROSAMOND,  seated. 

Rosamond. 
T)  ELLE  est  madame,  et  bien  douce  en  son  dire 

Dieu  lui  fit  don  de  pleurer  ou  de  rire 
Plus  doucement  que  femme  qui  soupire 
Et  puis  oublie. 

Bonne  est  madame,  et  me  baise  de  grace ; 
Bien  me  convient  baiser  si  belle  face, 
Bien  me  convient  que  si  doux  corps  embrasse 
Et  plus  n'oublie. 

Blonde  est  madame,  ayant  de  tristes  yeux ; 
Entre  or  et  roux  Dieu  fit  ses  longs  cheveux  ; 
Bien  mal  me  fait,  si  Ten  aime  bien  mieux, 
Et  moins  oublie. 

Blanche  est  madame  et  gracieuse  a  voir ; 
Ne  sais  si  porte  en  corps  azur  ou  noir ; 
Que  m'a  donnd  sa  belle  bouche  avoir 
Jamais  n'oublie. 

I  bade  them  tell  you  I  was  sick ;  the  sun 
Pains  me.     Sit  here. 

K.  Hen.  There  's  no  sick  show  in  you. 

Sing  still,  and  I  will  sit  against  your  feet 


ROSAMOND.  203 

And  see  the  singing  measure  in  your  throat 
Moved  evenly  ;  the  headband  leaves  your  hair 
Space  to  lie  soft  outside. 

Ros.  Stoop  then  and  touch 

That  I  may  bind  it  on  your  hands  ;  I  would 
Fain  have  such  hands  to  use  so  royally. 
As  you  are  king,  sir,  tell  me  without  shame 
Doth  not  your  queen  share  praise  with  you,  show  best 
In  all  crowned  ways  even  as  you  do  ?     I  have  heard 
Men  praise  the  state  in  her  and  the  great  shape  ; 
Yet  pray  you,  though  you  find  her  sweet  enow, 
Praise  her  not  over-measure  ;  yet  speak  truth  ; 
But  so  I  would  not  have  you  make  her  praise 
The  proper  pleasure  of  your  lips,  the  speech 
Found  best  in  them  ;  yet  do  not  scant  her  so 
That  I  may  see  you  tender  of  my  pain, 
Sparing  to  gall  my  wits  with  laud  of  her. 

K.  Hen.   O  sweet,  what  sting  is  this  she  makes  in  you  ? 
A  Frenchwoman,  black-haired  and  with  gray  lips 
And  fingers  like  a  hawk's  cut  claw  that  nips 
One's  wrist  to  carry  —  is  this  so  great  a  thing 
As  should  wring  wet  out  of  your  lids  ? 

Ros.  I  know 

That  for  my  sake  you  pinch  her  praises  in, 
Starve  her  of  right ;  do  not  so  fearfully  ; 
I  shall  best  love  you  if  you  praise  her,  seeing 
I  would  not  have  you  marry  a  worse  face, 
Say,  than  mine  even  ;  therefore  be  liberal, 


204  ROSAMOND, 

Praise  her  to  the  full,  till  you  shall  see  that  I 
Fall  sick  upon  your  words,  bid  them  be  pitiful 
And  bruise  not  me. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  not  praise  her  to  you. 

Show  me  a  little  golden  good  of  yours, 
But  some  soft  piece  of  gracious  habit  grown 
Common  with  you,  quite  new  with  me  and  sweet. 
It  is  the  smell  of  roses  where  you  come 
That  makes  my  sense  faint  now  ;  you  taste  of  it, 
Walk  with  it  always. 

Ros.  Hark,  the  rain  begins, 

Slips  like  a  bird  that  feels  among  shut  leaves  ; 
One  — two  ;  it  catches  in  the  rose-branches 
Like  a  word  caught.     Now,  as  I  shut  your  eyes, 
Show  me  what  sight  gets  first  between  the  lids, 
So  covered  in  to  make  false  witness  true. 
Speak,  and  speak  faith. 

K.  Hen.  I  think  this  first ;  here  once 

The  hard  noon  being  too  strong  a  weight  for  us, 
We  lay  against  the  edges  of  slant  leaves 
Facing  the  grass,  our  bodies  touching  them, 
Cooled  from  the  sun,  and  drank  cold  wine  ;  you  had 
A  straight  gown  flaked  with  gold  i'  the  undersleeves  ; 
And  in  your  throat  I  caught  the  quick  faint  red 
Drunk  down,  that  ran  and  stained  it  out  of  white, 
A  long  warm  thread  not  colored  like  a  vein 
But  wine-colored  ;  this  was  a  joy  to  see. 
O  little  throat  so  tender  to  show  red, 


ROSAMOND.  205 

Would  you  not  wear  my  lips  as  well,  be  kissed 
To  a  soft  mark  if  one  but  touched  you  so  ? 
I  will  not  touch  ;  only  to  feel  you  fast, 
Lie  down  and  take  your  feet  inside  both  hands, 
Untie  your  hair  to  blind  both  eyes  across  — 
Yea,  there  sweet,  kiss  me  now. 

Ros.  Do  but  stoop  yet 

And  I  will  put  my  fingers  where  the  hair 
Is  mixed  upon  the  great  crown's  wearing-place  ; 
Sir,  do  you  think  I  must  fall  old  indeed 
First  of  us  two  ?  look  how  between  my  wrists 
Even  about  the  purplest  seat  of  them 
This  lean  scant  flesh  goes  in.     I  am  grown  past  love ; 
The  breath  aches  each  way  in  my  sobbing  sides 
When  I  would  sing,  and  tears  climb  up  my  throat 
In  bitter  breaks  like  swellings  of  round  fruit 
From  the  rind  inwards,  and  my  pulses  go 
Like  fits  of  singing  when  the  head  gives  way 
And  leaves  pure  naught  to  stammer  in  spoilt  lips, 
Even  for  this  and  my  sad  patience  here 
Built  up  and  blinded  in  with  growing  green, 
Use  me  not  with  your  eyes  untenderly, 
But  though  I  tire  you,  make  you  sigh  at  me, 
Say  no  blame  overloud  ;  I  have  flowers  only 
And  foolish  ways  to  get  me  through  the  day, 
And  songs  of  yours  to  piece  with  weeping  words 
And  famish  and  forget.     Pray  you  go  now, 
I  am  the  abuse  of  your  compassion. 


206  ROSAMOND. 

K.  Hen.   I  am  gone  presently ;  but  for  this  space 
Give  me  poor  leave  to  love  you  with  mine  eyes 
And  feasted  expectation  of  shut  lips. 
God  help !  your  hair  burns  me  to  see  like  gold 
Burnt  to  pure  heat ;  your  color  seen  turns  in  me 
To  pain  and  plague  upon  the  temple-vein 
That  aches  as  if  the  sun's  heat  snapt  the  blood 
In  hot  mid  measure  ;  I  could  cry  on  you 
Like  a  maid  weeping-wise,  you  are  so  fair 
It  hurts  me  in  the  head,  makes  the  life  sick 
Here  in  my  hands,  that  one  may  see  how  beats 
Feverous  blue  upon  my  finger-tips. 
Touch  me  now  gently ;  I  am  as  he  that  saith 
In  the  great  song  sick  words  and  sorrowful 
Of  love's  hard  sweet  and  hunger  of  harsh  hours  ; 
Your  beauty  makes  me  blind  and  hot,  I  am 
Stabbed  in  the  brows  with  it. 

Ros.  Yea,  God  be  good, 

Am  I  fair  yet  ?  but  say  that  I  am  fair, 
Make  me  assured,  praise  me  quite  perfectly 
Lest  I  doubt  God  may  love  me  something  less 
And  his  hot  fear  so  nip  me  in  the  cheek 
That  I  burn  through.     Nay,  but  go  hence  ;  I  would 
Even  lose  the  sweet  I  love,  that  I  may  lose 
The  fear  of  losing  it. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  gone  quickly. 

You  know  my  life  is  made  a  pain  to  me 
With  angry  work,  harsh  hands  upon  my  life 


ROSAMOND.  207 

That  finger  in  the  torn  sad  sides  of  it 

For  the  old  thorn ;  touch  but  my  face  and  feel 

How  all  is  thwarted  with  thick  networking 

Where  your  lips  found  it  smooth,  clung  soft ;  there,  now, 

You  take  some  bruise  and  gall  of  mine  clear  out 

With  a  cool  kissing  mouth. 

Ros.  I  had  a  will 

To  make  some  chafing  matter  with  your  pride 
And  laugh  at  last ;  ay,  also  to  be  eased 
Of  some  small  wrath  at  your  harsh  tarriance  ; 
But  you  put  sadness  softly  in  my  lips 
With  your  marred  speech.     Look,  the  rain  slackens  yet. 

K.  Hen.    I  will  go  now  that  both  our  hearts  are  sweet 
And  lips  most  peaceable  ;  so  shall  we  sleep 
Till  the  next  honey  please  them,  with  a  touch 
Soft  in  our  mouths ;  sing  once  and  I  am  gone. 

Ros.    I  will  sing  something  heavy  in  the  word 
That  it  may  serve  us  ;  help  me  to  such  words. 
The  marigolds  have  put  me  in  my  song, 
They  shine  yet  redly  where  you  made  me  it. 

He*las,  madame,  ayez  de  moi  merci, 
Qui  porte  en  coeur  triste  fleur  de  souci ; 
N'est  plus  de  rose,  et  plus  ne  vois  ici 
Que  triste  fleur. 

M'est  trop  grand  deuil,  he'las,  dans  cette  vie  ; 
Car  vieil  espoir  me  lie  et  me  ddlie, 
Et  triste  fleur  m'est  force,  6  belle  amie, 
Porter  en  coeur. 


208  ROSAMOND. 

See  the  rain !  have  you  care  to  ride  by  this  ? 
Yea,  kiss  me  one  strong  kiss  out  of  your  heart, 
Do  not  kiss  more  ;  I  love  you  with  my  lips, 
My  eyes  and  heart,  your  love  is  in  my  blood, 
I  shall  die  merely  if  you  hold  to  me. 


IV.  Ante-Chapel  at  Shene.  Choir-music  from  within. 
In  the  passage  outside,  ARTHUR,  a  boy  of  the  choir, 
reading. 

Enter  SIR  ROBERT  DE  BOUCHARD. 

Bouchard. 

0  HE  spares  me  time  to  think  of  it ;  well,  so 

I  pull  this  tumbled  matter  square  with  God, 
What  sting  can  men's  mouths  hurt  me  with  ?    What  harm 
Because  the  savor  of  undieted  sense 
Palates  not  me  ?  the  taste  and  smell  of  love 
Sickens  me,  being  so  fed  with  its  keen  use 
That  delicate  divisions  of  soft  touch 
Feel  gross  to  me  as  dullest  accident  ? 
That  way  of  will  most  men  take  pleasure  in 
It  tires  my  feet  to  walk.     Then  for  the  harder  game,  — 
Joust  where  the  steel  swings,  fight  that  clears  up  blood, 

1  want  the  relish  too  ;  being  no  such  sinewed  ape, 
Blunder  of  brawn  and  jolted  muscle-work, 

As  beats  and  bleeds  about  his  iron  years, 


ROSAMOND.  209 

Anoints  his  hide  with  stupid  lust  and  sleep, 

Fattens  to  mould  and  dies  ;  rubs  sides  with  dust, 

Ending  his  riddle.     I  have  seen  time  enough, 

Struck  blows  and  tricked  and  paid  and  won  and  wrought, 

I  know  not  well  why  wrought.     A  monk,  now  —  there  's 

right  work ; 

Dull  work  or  wise,  body  and  head  keep  up  ; 
I  should  have  pulled  in  scapular  and  alb 
To  shut  my  head  up  and  its  work,  who  knows  ? 
Arthur  (outside).  They  told  me  I  should  see  the  king 

come  in ; 

I  shall  not  get  the  words  out  clear  enough,  — 
No  time,  I  doubt.     I  wonder  will  he  wear 
Chain-mail  or  samite-work  ?     I  would  take  mail,  — 
A  man  fares  best  in  good  close  joints  of  mail. 
Fautor,  —  I  seem  to  catch  it  up  their  way  ; 
This  time  I  '11  come  off  clear  yet.     One  rhyme  sticks  — 

(He  repeats?) 

Fatttor  meus,  magne  Deus,  quis  adversiim  tibi  stabit  ? 
Parum  ridet  qui  te  videt ;  sponsam  sponsus  acctisabit; 
Sicut  herbam  qui  superbam  flatu  gentem  dissipabit, 
Flectit  cesium  quasi  velum  quo  personam  implicabit. 

There,  all  straight  out,  clean  forthright  singing,  this  ; 
I  '11  see  the  king  in  the  face  and  speak  out  hard 
That  he  shall  hear  me.     Last  time  all  fell  wrong  ; 
I  had  that  song  about  the  lily-plants 


210  ROSAMOND. 

Growing  up  goodly  in  their  green  of  time 

With  gold  heads  and  gold  sprinkles  in  the  neck 

And  God  among  them,  feeding  like  a  lamb 

That  takes  out  sin  ;  so  I  let  slip  his  name, — 

Euh  !  I  can  touch  the  prints  of  the  big  switch  ; 

One,  six,  twelve,  —  ah  !  the  sharp  small  suckers  stung 

Like  a  whole  hive  loose,  as  Hugh's  arm  swung  out. 

Good  for  this  king  that  I  shall  see  to  have 

Fine  padded  work  and  silk  seats  pillow-puft 

Instead  of  wood  to  twist  on  painfully. 

Bouch.   So  comes  mine  answer  in  ;  I  thank  you,  Lord 
I  '11  none  of  this.     Give  men  clean  work  and  sleep, 
And  baby  bodies  this  priest's  blessed  way. 
But,  being  so  set  between  the  time's  big  jaws 
To  dodge  and  keep  me  from  the  shut  o'  the  teeth. 
Shuffle  from  lip  to  lip,  a  shell  with  priest 
For  kernel  in  the  husk  and  rind  of  knight,  — 
No  chink  bit  in  me,  but  nigh  swallowed  whole,  — 
Who  says  my  trick  that,  played  on  either,  makes 
Music  for  me  and  sets  my  head  on  work, 
Is  devil's  lesson  ?     Pity  that  lives  by  milk 
Suckles  not  me  ;  I  see  no  reason  set 
To  keep  me  from  the  general  use  of  things 
Which  no  more  holds  the  great  regard  of  man 
Than;children  spoiling  flies.     Respect  and  habit 
Find  no  such  tongue  against  me  ;  I  but  wear 
The  raiment  of  my  proper  purpose,  not 
The  threadworn  coat  of  use.     Even  who  keeps  on 


ROSAMOND.  211 

Such  garments  for  the  reputation's  want, 

Wears  them  unseamed  inside.     The  boy  there  now  — 

Arth.   Yea,  I  loathe  Hugh.     Peter  he  beat,  and  me, — 
Me  twice,  because  that  day  the  queen  came  in 
I  twisted  back  my  head  to  thrust  well  through 
The  carved  work's  double  lattice  to  get  sight 
Of  a  tall  wpman  with  gold  clothes  and  hair 
That  shone  beyond  her  clothes ;  so  sharp  he  smote, 
The  grim  beast  Hugh  with  bearish  teeth  and  hair 
All  his  chin  long  and  where  no  hair  should  be ! 
And  Peter  pinched  and  pushed  all  vespers  through 
To  get  my  turn  and  see  her.     How  she  went 
Holding  her  throat  up,  with  her  round  neck  out 
Curdwhite,  no  clot  in  it  not  smooth  to  stroke,  — 
All  night  I  shook  in  sleep  for  that  one  thing, 
Stirred  with  my  feet  and  pulled  about  awry. 
I  think  too  she  kept  smiling  with  her  mouth 
(Her  wonderful  red  quiet  mouth)  and  prayed 
All  to  herself.     Now  that  men  call  a  mouth,  — 
And  Hugh's  begrimed  big  lips  you  call  the  same 
That  make  a  thick  smile  up  with  all  their  fat 
Never  but  when  he  gets  one  by  the  nape 
To  make  him  sprawl  and  weep.     How  all  the  hair 
Drew  the  hard  shining  of  the  candle-fires 
And  shone  back  harder  with  a  flare  in  it 
Through  all  the  plaits  and  bands.     Then  Hugh  said,  — 

"  Look, 
You  Arthur,  that  white  woman  with  such  eyes 


212  ROSAMOND. 

Is  worse  in  hell  than  any  devil  that  seethes  ; 

She  keeps  the  color  of  it  in  her  hair 

That  shakes  like  flame  so.     Wait  till  I  get  in 

And  teach  the  beast's  will  in  your  female  flesh 

With  some  red  slits  in  it,  to  get  out  loose 

In  such  dog's  ways."     But  Hugh  lied  hard,  I  think ; 

For  he  said  after  in  his  damned  side-room 

What  fierce  account  God  made  of  such  a  name 

And  how  the  golden  king  that  made  God  songs 

Chid  at  their  ways  and  called  them  this  and  that ; 

And  he  loved  many  queens  with  just  such  hair 

And  such  good  eyes,  and  had  more  scores  of  them 

Than  I  have  stripes  since  last  red  week  on  me. 

So  I  can  see  Hugh  lied.     For  no  Jew's  wife 

Looked  ever  so,  or  found  such  ways  to  hold 

Her  sweet  straight  body.  —  But  my  next,  —  that 's  hard. 

(Reads.) 
Bouch.  Yea,  there  the  snake's  head  blinks  ?  yea,  doth 

it  there  ? 

O  this  sweet  thorn  that  worries  the  kind  flesh  ! 
.  Yea,  but  the  devil's  seedling  side-graft,  Lord, 
That  pinches  out  the  sap.  —  I  '11  talk  to  him. 

Enter  from  the  Chapel  QUEEN  ELEANOR. 

Qu.  El.   Ah,  you  here,  Bouchard  ?  is  it  well  with  you 
When  you  hear  music  ?     I  am  hot  i'  the  face  ; 
Kiss  me  now,  Robert,  where  the  red  begins, 
And  tell  me,  does  no  music  hurt  you  ?    Ah,  — 
Will  no  man  stop  them  ? 


ROSAMOND.  213 

Bouch.  Speak  me  lower  then ; 

No  time  to  kiss  bad  words  out  on  the  mouth 
As  one  treads  flame  out  with  the  heel.     Well  were  it, 
That  you  should  keep  the  purpose  in  your  lips 
From  knowledge  of  your  eyes ;  let  none  partake, 
No  inquisition  of  the  air  get  out 
One  secret,  or  the  imperious  sun  compel 
One  word  of  you.     Wisdom  doth  sheathe  her  hand 
To  smite  the  fool  behind. 

Qu.  El.  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Let  be  your  sentence  ;  O,  I  am  sick  to  death, 
Could  lie  down  here  and  bruise  my  head  with  stone, 
Cover  up  hands  and  feet  and  die  at  once. 
Nathless  I  will  not  have  her  eyes  and  hair 
Crown-circled,  and  her  breasts  embraced  with  gold, 
When  the  grave  catches  me.     It  is  mere  time, 
The  mere  sick  fault  of  age  I  limp  with  ;  yea, 
Time  was  I  had  put  such  fierce  occasion  on 
Like  a  new  scented  glove  ;  but  now  this  thing 
Tastes  harsh  as  if  I  drank  that  blood  indeed 
Which  I  '11  not  even  have  spilled  in  dust ;  it  clings, 
Under  the  lip,  makes  foul  the  sense,  —  ha,  there, 
I  knew  that  noise  was  close  upon  my  head. 

Arthur  (outside). 

Matrem  pater,  fratrem  frater,  iste  condemnabit  eum; 
Erit  nemo  quern  postremo  tu  non  incusabis  reum  ; 
Nihil  tactum  quod  non  fractum;  fulgor  ibit  ante  Deum; 
Mea  caro  prodest  rarb ;  non  est  laudi  caput  meum. 


214  ROSAMOND. 

Qu.  El.   Say  now  you  love  me,  Robert ;  I  fear  God, 
Fear  is  more  bitter  than  a  hurt  worm's  tooth, 
But  if  God  lets  one  love  me  this  side  heaven 
And  puts  his  breath  not  out,  then  shall  I  laugh 
I'  the  eyes  of  him  for  mere  delight,  pluck  off 
Fear  that  ties  man  to  patience,  white  regret, 
All  mixture  of  diseased  purpose,  made 
To  cut  the  hand  at  wrist ;  remorse  and  doubt 
Shall  die  of  want  in  me. 

Bouch.  Too  much  of  this  ; 

Get  your  eyes  back.     Think  how  some  ten  days  gone 
He  drew  loose  hair  into  his  either  hand 
And  how  the  speech  got  room  between  their  mouths 
Only  to  breathe  in  and  go  out ;  at  times, 
How  she  said  "  Eleanor  "  to  try  the  name, 
Found  not  so  sweet  as  Rosamond  to  say  ; 
Perhaps  too,  "  Love,  the  Frenchwoman  gets  thin, 
Her  mouth  is  something  older  than  her  hair ; 
Count  by  these  petals,  pluck  them  three  and  three, 
What  months  it  takes  to  rid  the  sun  of  her, 
And  make  some  grave-grass  wealthier  "  ;  will  you  bear 
This? 

Qu.  El.    Do  men  tie  the  sword  this  way,  or  that  ? 
Were  I  a  knight  now  I  would  gird  it  on 
Strained  hard  upon  the  clasp,  would  feel  the  hilt 
Bruise  my  side  blue  and  work  the  stamp  therein 
Deep  as  blood  hides  i'  the  flesh.     I  love  pain  well  to  feel; 
As  to  wring  in  one's  fingers,  —  the  least  pain  ; 


ROSAMOND.  215 

It  kills  the  hard  impatience  of  the  soul, 
Cools  heat  of  head,  makes  bearable  all  shame 
That  finds  a  work  to  do  ;  yea,  very  sense 
Tastes  it  for  comfort,  gets  assured  with  it, 
Being  strong  to  smite  the  flesh,  and  wear  pain  well. 
She  must  hate  pain,  that  woman  ;  it  should  jar 
Her  thin  soft  sense  through,  tear  it  up  like  silk ; 
What,  if  worms  eat  me  that  sweet  flesh  in  time  ? 

Arthur  (outside). 

Motu  mentis  quasi  ventis  facit  maria  levarij 
Ex  avena  flatu  plend  facit  dulcem  sonum  darij 
Tument  colles  quasi  folks  quia  jussit  exsufflari, 
Et  quce  depict  manu  replet  labra  calicis  amari. 

Qu.  EL  Ay,  bitter  ;  for  it  bites  and  burns  one  through 
As  the  sharp  sting  of  wine  curdles  the  mouth. 
He  would  not  wed  her  if  I  died  ?  I  know,  — 
A  laugh  with  all  his  teeth  in  it,  the  beard 
So  twisted  from  the  underlip  about,  — 
Eh,  said  he  that  he  would  not  marry  her  ? 

Bouch.    Nay,  but  who  deemed  else  ?  no  man  certainly. 
When  the  weak  lust  falls  dead  and  eyeless  flesh 
Is  as  a  beast  asleep  and  sick  of  meat, 
What  marvel  if  no  spirit  there  holds  out  ? 
No  appetite,  that  like  the  unchilded  sea 
(In  whose  unprofitable  and  various  womb 
Fair  ships  lie  sidelong  with  a  fisher's  buoy 


216  ROSAMOND. 

Miles  down  in  water)  hungers  for  such  orts 
As  riot  spares  lean  want,  is  yet  so  wide, 
So  vast  of  ravin  or  so  blind  in  scope, 
As  can  abide  the  chewed  and  perished  meats 
That  relish  died  upon.     Fill  famine  to  the  lips, 
The  word  of  bread  shall  turn  his  throat  awry ; 
So  doth  the  sense  of  love  all  love  put  out, 
And  kiss  it  from  that  very  place  o'  the  soul 
Mere  wish  made  sweet  indeed. 

Qu.  El.  I  am  sorry  for  you  ; 

This  foolish  poison  in  your  tongue  forgets 
All  better  things  to  say. 

Bouch.  It  is  dull  truth  ; 

This  gift  found  in  me  should  much  profit  you. 

Qu.  El.    I  care  not  for  you ;  I  could  wish  you  hanged 
But  for  some  love  that  sticks  here  in  my  head, 
Some  stupid  trick  caught  up,  — like  play  with  straws, 
Tune-burden  twisted  over  in  sick  ears 
That  keeps  up  time  with  fever ;  so  habit  fools  me 
To  use  you  like  a  friend. 

Bouch.  It  is  a  piteous  thing 

When  honesty  grown  gray  has  hairs  plucked  out 
By  such  unreverent  fingers.     Come,  let  be  ; 
I  marvel  what  lewd  matter  jars  your  talk 
So  much  past  tune. 

Qu.  El.  'T  is  better'talk  than  do 

Where  doing  means  actual  harm.     Perchance  this  thing 
Shall  trap  our  souls  indeed,  —  eh  ? 


ROSAMOND.  217 

Bouch.  Doubt  me  not ; 

I  think  so  truly.     Prithee  let  us  in, 
Wash  hands  and  weep. 

Qu.  EL  You  have  marred  my  will  to  prayer. 

God  is  right  gracious,  may  be  he  shall  help, 
As  we  do  honorably.     I  will  not  go. 

Arthur  (outside). 

Multo  fletu  non  expletu  facit  teneras  pupillas; 
Dente  tangi,  manu  frangi  jubet  nitidas  mantillas  j 
Quum  amasnce  parum  gence  nudas  exhibent  maxillas^ 
Fiet  gravis  odor  suavis  si  quis  osculabit  illas. 

Qu.  El.   Who  made  that  hymn  ? 

Bouch.  Aloys  of  Blois. 

Qu.  El.  Ah  priest ! 

You  should  be  priest,  my  Bouchard,  scalp  and  mouth, 
You  have  such  monk's  ways.     If  she  be  foul  to  God 
And  her  sweet  breath  ill  savor  in  his  lip, 
Then  shall  her  blood-spilling  be  sacrifice 
And  cleanse  us  in  the  blow.     I  do  thank  God, 
I  praise  the  wording  of  his  prayer,  will  make 
Fast  and  sweet  words  and  thereto  thanksgiving, 
Be  married  to  his  love,  my  purpose  making 
Such  even  wing  and  way  with  his. 

Bouch.  Yea,  first 

Show  me  the  perfect  fashion  of  her  death. 

Qu.  El.  What  fashion  ?  feel  this  flasket  next  my  waist, 


2T8  ROSAMOND. 

Full  to  the  wicked  lips,  crammed  up  and  full 
With  drugs  and  scents  that  touch  you  in  the  mouth 
And  burn  you  all  up,  face  and  eyes  at  once,  — 
They  say  so ;  they  may  lie,  who  knows  ?  but  kill 
The  thing  does  really ;  do  you  kiss  me  now  ? 

Bouch.   Some  Frenchman  gave  my  queen  the  thing  to 
keep  ? 

Qu.  El.   I  wot  well  England  would  not  give  a  queen 
Six  grains  of  salt  she  paid  in  salt  of  tears. 
France  makes  good  blood,  made  Becqueval  and  me ; 
I  bade  him  get  me  for  love's  sake, — years  gone, — 
Such  mortal  matter.     Ah,  poor  Becqueval, 
A  good  time  had  we  in  that  pleasance-walk ; 
I  with  few  dames  about  the  white  pear-trees,  — 
Spring  was  it  ?  yea,  for  green  sprang  thick  as  flame 
And  the  birds  bit  the  blossom  and  sang  hard,  — 
Now  sat  and  tore  up  flowers  to  waste,  wet  strips 
Of  hyacinth,  rain-sodden  bells,  — then  stood 
To  make  them  braid  my  running  hair  well  back, 
Pluck  out  the  broken  plait  of  March-lilies, 
Lest  one  should  mutter,  —  "  Ha,  the  queen  comes  late, 
Her  hair  unwoven  and  cheeks  red  as  though 
Fingers  and  lips  had  kissed  and  fondled  them, — 
Ay,  pity  of  her !  "  so  for  that,  —  what  words 
I  choke  with  saying  ! 

Bouch.  Weak  in  words  indeed  ; 

See  how  I  shut  them  back  upon  the  mouth. 
The  king  comes  here  to  chapel ;  let  us  hence. 


ROSAMOND.  219 

Qu^  El.    I  am  very  ready.     Nay,  this  turn  it  is ; 
I  am  so  free  and  pleasant  of  my  mood, 
I  can  scarce  go  for  simple  joyousne-ss.  [Exeunt. 

Arthur  (outside}. 

Pater,  e  me  mendas  deme,  fac  ut  cingar  prece  suavi; 
Pater,  e  me  vinum  premi,  fac  ut  purgar  face  gravi ; 
Tu  me  bonis  imple  donis  ut  implentur  melle  favi, 
Tu  me  rege  tud  lege,  quia  mundum  non  amavi. 


V.    At  Woodstock. 

Rosamond. 
T    ATE  summer  now,  but  in  the  fair  blue  spring 

How  shall  God  bear  me  ?     Once  (men  say)  Lord 

Christ 

Walked  between  rivers  in  his  rose-garden 
With  some  old  saint  who  had  a  wife  by  him 
To  feed  with  apple-pulp  and  honeycomb, 
A  wife  like  Mary  in  king  David's  time 
Long  after,  —  but  a  snake  so  stung  his  foot 
He  came  back  never,  being  lame  at  heel. 
A  story  some  priest  wrote  out  all  in  gold, 
Painting  the  leaves  green,  for  a  king  to  read  ; 
But  the  king  burnt  it ;  whom  God  therefore  took 
And  sold  him  to  some  Turk,  with  eyes  thrust  out. 


220  ROSAMOND. 

Here  in  my  garden,  now  his  feet  are  healed 

From  those  twin  stains  where  bit  the  hanging-nails, 

He  would  not  come  to  let  me  kiss  them  whole, 

Wash  them  with  oil  and  wet  fruits  bruised  to  juice, 

Rare  waters  stained  and  scented  through  with  rose,  — 

Though  my  hair  be  as  long  as  Magdalen's, 

As  yellow,  may  be.     Mine  eyes  and  eyelids  ache. 

Too  thick  to  see  past,  weeping  swells  them  blue  ; 

And  the  veins  narrow  visibly  and  waste 

Where  next  the  elbow  neither  hand  could  span  ; 

The  flesh  that  wore  glad  color  is  gone  gray, 

And  soon  the  hair  will ;  yea,  not  milk  but  blood 

Fills  my  breast  through,  not  good  for  any  child 

To  lay  sweet  lips  to ;  I  am  as  a  gold  cup 

With  beaten  edges  and  dry  mouths  of  dust, 

That  tears  weep  into,  and  that  cunning  man 

By  whose  wit  I  was  fashioned  lets  them  run 

And  lets  men  break  me.     If  I  were  well  dead, 

Then  were  the  tears  all  spilled  over  the  ground 

And  I  made  empty ;  also  I  pray  God 

To  get  me  broken  quickly ;  else,  who  knows, 

If  I  live  long  till  these  years  too  seem  gray 

As  a  flower  ruined,  then  ere  sleep  at  night 

I  shall  be  grown  too  stark  and  thin  to  pray, 

Nor  will  God  care  to  set  me  praying  then. 

Maids  will  keep  round  me,  girls  with  smooth  warm  hair 

When  mine  is  hard,  no  silk  in  it  to  feel,  — 

Tall  girls  to  dress  me,  laughing  underbreath, 

Too  low  for  gold  to  tighten  at  the  waist. 


ROSAMOND.  221 

Eh,  the  hinge  sharpens  at  the  grate  across  ? 
Five  minutes  now  to  get  the  green  walk  through 
And  turn,  —  the  chestnut  leaves  will  take  his  hair 
If  he  turn  quick ;  or  I  shall  hear  some  bud 
Fall,  or  some  pebble's  clink  along  the  fence 
Or  stone  his  heel  grinds,  or  torn  lime-blossom 
Flung  at  me  from  behind  ;  not  poppies  now 
Nor  marigolds,  but  rose  and  lime-flower. 

Enter  QUEEN  ELEANOR. 

Qu.  EL  (to  Bouchard  within}.  Outside,  —  outside,  —  I  bade 

you  keep  outside ; 

Look  to  her  people  ;  tell  me  not  of  shame  ; 
Look  to  her  women. 

Ros.  Ah  God  !  shall  this  be  so  ? 

Qu.  EL    I  '11  have  no  man  at  hand  to  help  her  through ; 
Not  till  the  king  be  come  ;  tush,  tell  not  me, 
No  treaties  —  talk  of  promises,  you  talk  ! 
I  will  not  strike  her ;  look  to  them ;  Lord  God  ! 
I  bade  you  have  a  heed  ;  there,  go  now  ;  there  !  — 
Here,  golden  lady,  look  me  in  the  face  ; 
Give  me  both  hands,  that  I  may  read  you  through, 
See  how  the  blood  runs,  how  the  eyes  take  light, 
How  the  mouth  sets  when  one  is  beautiful. 
Ah  sweet,  and  shall  not  men  praise  God  for  you  ? 

Ros.   I  shall  die  now.     Madam,  you  are  the  queen. 

Qu.  EL   Does  fear  so  speak  ? 

Ros.  Not  so  ;  for  pain  with  me 


222  ROSAMOND. 

Is  a  worn  garment  or  that  common  food 

That  sleep  comes  after  best ;  what  wrath  will  do 

I  make  no  reckoning  with. 

Qu.  El.  What  love  hath  done 

I  keep  the  count  of;  did  he  not  hold  this  way  ? 
Did  you  not  set  both  hands  behind  his  head, 
And  curl  your  body  like  a  snake's  ?  not  set 
Each  kiss  between  the  hair  of  lip  and  chin, 
Cover  your  face  upon  his  knees,  draw  down 
His  hands  on  you,  shut  either  eye  to  kiss  ? 
Then  it  was  "  Love,  a  gold  band  either  side, 
A  gold  ring  to  pull  close  each  knot  of  hair  !  " 
"  Nay,  not  so  ;  kiss  me  rather  like  a  bird 
That  lets  his  bill  cut  half  the  red  core  through 
And  rend  and  bite  for  pleasure,  —  eh  !  I  felt 
What  pinched  my  lips  up  after  "  ;  —  was  it  not  ? 
Did  it  not  sting  i'  the  blood,  pluck  at  the  breath 
If  a  bird  caught  his  song  up  in  the  leaves  ? 
Eh  !  this  was  sweet  too,  that  you  called  the  king 
Some  girl's  name  with  no  royal  note  in  it 
To  spoil  the  chatter,  —  some  name  like  a  kiss 
The  lips  might  loose  and  hesitate  upon  ? 
He  would  weave  up  this  yellow  skein  of  yours 
To  knot  and  ravel,  though  his  hands  might  pluck 
Some  plait  a  little  overmuch  ;  your  throat, 
Pure  pearl,  too  fair  to  swell  or  strain  with  sobs, 
One  would  not  have  a  rough  thing  rasp  it  round, 
Not  steel  to  touch  it,  only  soft  warm  silk. 


ROSAMOND.  223 

Will  you  not  sing  now,  loose  your  hair  well  out 

For  me  to  hold  the  gracious  weft  ?     Alas, 

So  white  you  grow,  love  ;  the  head  drops  indeed, 

A  moan  comes  out  of  that  kissed  mouth  of  yours  ! 

You  harlot,  are  you  sick  to  look  at  me  ? 

Though  my  heel  bruise  you  in  the  gold  snake's  head 

I  choke  to  touch  you. 

Ros.  I  shall  die  without. 

But  give  me  time  to  speak ;  wherefore  am  I 
That  am  made  soft  in  this  my  body's  strength 
And  in  my  soul  smooth  and  affectionate 
So  taken  in  your  loathing  ?  you  do  not  right 
To  hate  me  that  am  harmless  ;  see  my  face, 
You  will  not  smite  me  afterwards  ;  this  sin 
Was  not  begot  of  wilfulness  in  me 
To  be  your  pain  and  a  shame  burning  you  ; 
Yea  verily,  no  evil  will  or  wit 
Made  me  your  traitor  ;  there  came  not  in  my  mind 
One  thought  to  gall  you  past  good  patience  ;  yea, 
If  you  could  see  the  pained  poor  heart  in  me 
You  would  find  nothing  hateful  toward  you 
In  all  the  soft  red  record  its  blood  makes. 

Qu.  EL   Thou  art  more  fool  than  thief ;  I  have  not  seen 
A  beaten  beast  so  humble  of  its  mouth, 
So  shaming  me  as  you  ;  I  am  ashamed 
That  such  a  thing  can  see  me  in  the  eyes. 
You  do  not  think  that  I  shall  let  you  go 
Being  well  caught  ?    Ah  harlot,  have  you  made 


224  ROSAMOND. 

Thief's  japes  at  me,  lewd  guesses  on  my  wrath, 
Spat  towards  me  ?  and  now  God  gives  me  you 
I  shall  play  soft  and  touch  you  with  my  gloves, 
Nay,  make  my  lips  two  kissing  friends  of  yours 
Because  mere  love  and  a  sweet  fault  i'  the  flesh 
Put  you  to  shame  ?     Look,  you  shall  die  for  that, 
Because  you  sinned  not  out  of  hate  to  me 
That  have  and  hate  you.    .Do  not  shake  at  it, 
I  will  not  strike  you  yet ;  what  hands  are  mine 
To  take  such  hangman's  matter  to  their  work 
And  be  clean  after  ?  but  a  charm  I  have 
Quick  to  undo  God's  cunning  weft  of  flesh 
And  mix  with  deadly  waters  the  glad  blood 
That  hath  so  pure  a  sense  and  subtleness. 
This  is  a  gracious  death  made  out  for  you 
And  praiseworthy  ;  you  shall  die  no  base  way, 
Seeing  what  king's  lips  have  fastened  in  your  neck. 
Choose  me  this  edge  to  try  your  flesh  upon 
That  feels  so  precious  —  like  a  holy  thing 
Kissed  by  some  great  saint's  mouth,  laid  afterwards 
With  taper  flame  in  middle  altar-work, 
All  over  soft  as  your  own  lips  that  fed 
Between  the  king's  eyes  — 

Ros.  Madam,  be  merciful, 

You  hurt  me,  pinching  in  my  throat  so  hard. 
Alas,  ah  God,  will  not  one  speak  for  me  ? 

Qu.  EL  Yea,  then  choose  this. 

Ros.  I  will  not  choose  ;  God  help 


ROSAMOND.  225 

I  will  not  choose ;  I  have  no  eyes  to  choose  ; 
I  will  be  blind  and  save  the  sight  of  choice. 
So  shall  my  death,  not  looking  on  itself, 
Fall  like  a  chance. 

Qu.  El.  Put  me  not  past  mine  oath ; 

I  am  sworn  deep  to  lay  no  stroke  on  you. 

Ros.    I  will  not  drink ;  so  shall  I  make  defeat 
On  death's  own  bitter  will.     Da  not  look  hard  ; 
I  know  you  are  more  sweet  at  heart  than  so. 
Make  me  the  servant  of  your  meanest  house, 
And  let  your  girls  smite  me  some  thrice  a  day, 
I  will  bear  that ;  yea,  I  will  serve  and  be 
Stricken  for  wage  and  bruised  ;  give  me  two  days 
A  poor  man  puts  away  for  idleness, 
Lest  my  soul  ache  with  you,  —  nay,  but,  sweet  God, 
Is  there  no  thing  will  say  a  word  for  me, 
A  little  sad  word  said  inside  her  ears 
To  make  them  burn  for  piteous  shame  ?  you  see 
How  I  weep,  yea,  fear  wrings  my  body  round ; 
You  know  not  hardly  how  afraid  I  am, 
But  my  throat  sickens  with  pure- fear,  my  blood 
Falls  marred  in  me  ;  and  God  should  love  you  so 
Being  found  his  friend  and  made  compassionate  — 

Qu.  EL   I  have  a  mind  to  pluck  thee  with  my  hands, 
Tear  thy  hair  backward,  tread  on  thee.     By  God, 
I  thought  no  sin  so  sick  and  lame  a  fool 
As  this  lust  is. 

Ros.  But  I  will  drink  indeed, 


226  ROSAMOND. 

I  will  not  yet ;  give  me  the  sword  to  see 
How  that  must  hurt. 

Qu.  El.  Yea,  this  way  will  you  see  ? 

Ros.    I  cannot  hold  it  by  the  edge  ;  it  is 
Too  keen  to  touch  the  sides  thereof  with  sight. 
Yea  then,  your  drink. 

Qu.  El.  To  spill  here  in  the  ground  ? 

It  were  good  game  to  get  white  iron  out 
As  did  God's  priest  with  a  king's  harlot  once, 
Burn  up  your  hair  and  brand  between  your  eyes 
That  I  might  have  you  wear  me  so  in  red. 
Besides  to-night  the  king  will  look  for  you, 
"  Eh,  Rosamond  ?  she  hides  then  closer  yet, 
May  be  for  fear  of  passengers  that  slip 
Between  those  waters  ;  I  shall  have  her  now, 
Ha  love,  have  I  said  right  ?  "  would  he  kiss  you, 
Spoilt  face  and  all  ?  —  You  will  die  simply  then  ? 
You  do  the  wiselier. 

Ros.  God  be  pitiful ! 

No  man  in  this  sharp  world  to  speak  for  me 
Of  all  that  go  and  talk,  —  why  now  they  laugh, 
Chatter  of  me,  base  people,  say  foul  things,  — 
Ah  God,  sweet  lord,  that  death  should  be  so  hard. 
Nay,  thou  fair  death,  make  me  not  wroth  with  thee  ; 
Use  me  the  best  way  found  in  thee,  fair  death, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  pleasure  of  mine  end, 
For  I  will  kiss  thee  with  a  patient  lip 
Even  on  this  husk  of  thine ;  thou  tender  death, 


ROSAMOND.  227 

Do  me  none  evil  and  no  shame,  that  am 
So  soft  and  have  such  sufferance  of  thee 
And  talk  such  lovers'  little  talk  ;  fair  death, 
Where  thou  hast  kissed  the  latest  lip  of  man's 
None  shall  drink  after. 

Qu.  El.  Cease,  and  be  not  lewd  ; 

Cease,  and  make  haste.     What  harlot's  wit  hast  thou 
To  play  death's  friend  this  way  ? 

Ros.  Yea,  friends  we  are  ; 

I  have  no  breath  that  makes  a  curse  for  you, 
All  goes  to  fashion  prayer  that  God  sow  pity 
I'  the  grounds  of  wrath  ;  you  see  me  that  I  drink ; 
So  God  have  patience. 

Qu.  EL  It  is  done  indeed. 

Perchance  now  it  should  please  you  to  be  sure 
This  were  no  poison  ?  as  it  is,  it  is. 
Ha,  the  lips  tighten  so  across  the  teeth 
They  should  bite  in,  show  blood  ;  how  white  she  is, 
Yea,  white  !  dead  green  now  like  a  fingered  leaf. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  and  BOUCHARD. 

K.  Hen.   Is  it  all  done  ?    Yea,  so,  love,  come  to  me, 
You  are  quite  safe,  held  fast ;  kiss  me  a  little. 
Speak,  hast  thou  done  ? 

Qu.  El.  So,  would  you  praise  me  now  ? 

It  is  done  well,  and  as  I  thought  of  it. 

K.  Hen.   O  sweetest  thing,  you  do  not  bleed  with  her  ? 
She  cannot  speak.     By  God's  own  holiness 


228  ROSAMOND. 

Each  fear  put  on  you  shall  be  as  blood  wrung 
From  her  most  damndd  body.     Do  but  speak. 
This  is  just  fear.     Ay,  come  close  in  and  weep. 
This  is  your  fear  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  but  my  present  death. 

Doth  fear  so  ruin  all  the  blood  in  one 
As  this  spoils  mine  ?     Let  me  get  breath  to  help  ; 
And  yet  no  matter ;  I  will  not  speak  at  all, 
I  can  die  without  speaking. 

K.  Hen.    (to  the  Queen}.          Listen  to  this,  — 
Thou  art  worse  caught  than  anything  in  hell, — 
To  put  thy  hands  upon  this  body  —  God, 
Curse  her  for  me  !     I  will  not  slay  thee  yet, 
But  damn  thee  some  fine  quiet  way  —  O  love, 
That  I  might  put  thee  in  my  heart  indeed 
To  be  wept  well !  thou  shalt  be  healed  of  her  — 
Poor  sweet ;  she  hath  even  touched  thee  in  the  neck 
Thou  art  so  hurt.     This  is  not  possible 
O  God,  that  I  could  see  what  thou  wilt  do 
With  her  when  she  is  damned  !     Thou  piece  of  hell, 
Is  there  no  way  to  crawl  out  of  my  hate 
By  saving  her  ?  pray  God  then  till  I  come, 
For  if  my  hands  had  room  for  thee  I  would 
Hew  thy  face  out  of  shape.  —  She  will  not  die. 
This  heat  in  her  is  pure,  and  the  sweet  life 
With  holy  color  doth  assure  itself 
In  death's  sharp  face  ;  she  will  not  die  at  all. 
Thou  art  all  foiled,  found  fool  and  laughable 


ROSAMOND.  229 

And  halt  and  spat  upon  and  sick,  —  O  love 
Make  me  not  mad  !  if  you  do  so  with  me 
I  am  but  dead. 

Ros.  Do  not  so  cry  on  me ; 

I  am  hurt  sore,  but  shall  not  die  of  it. 
Be  gracious  with  me,  set  your  face  to  mine, 
Tell  me  s.weet  things.     I  have  no  pain  at  all, 
I  am  but  woman  and  make  words  of  pain 
Where  I  am  well  indeed  ;  only  the  breath 
Catches,  for  joy  to  have  you  close.     I  would 
Sing  your  song  through  ;  yea,  I  am  good  you  said, 
Gracious  and  good  ;  I  cannot  sing  that  out, 
But  am  I  good  that  kiss  your  lips  or  no  ? 
That  keeps  yet  sweet ;  there  is  not  so  much  pain 
As  one  might  weep  for ;  a  little  makes  us  weep  ; 
To  die  grown  old  were  sad,  but  I  die  worth 
Being  kissed  of  you ;  leave  me  some  space  to  breathe,  — 
I  have  thanks  yet.  [Dies. 

Qu.  El.  So  is  the  whole  played  out ; 

Yea,  kiss  him.     Ah,  my  Bouchard,  you  said  that? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  keep  the  mouth  at  ease  ;  shut  down  the 

lids  ; 

You  see  I  am  not  riotously  moved, 
But  peaceable,  all  heat  gone  out  of  me. 
This  is  some  trick,  some  riddle  of  a  dream, 
Have  you  not  known  such  dreams  ?     I  bid  you  stand, 
Being  king  and  lord,  I  make  you  come  and  go; 
But  say  I  bid  my  love  turn  and  kiss  me, 


230  ROSAMOND. 

No  more  obedience  ?  here  at  sight  of  her 

The  heart  of  rule  is  broken.     No  more  obedience  ? 

She  hath  forgotten  this  ;  were  I  a  man. 

Even  that  would  slay  me  ;  I  beseech  you,  sir, 

Take  no  care  of  me  ;  I  can  bid  you  ;  see, 

I  touch  her  face  ;  the  lips  begin  to  stir, 

Gather  up  color  ;  is  there  sound  or  speech, 

Or  pleasant  red  under  the  white  of  death  ? 

She  will  speak  surely ;  for  dead  flesh  is  gray 

And  even  the  goodliest  pattern  wrought  of  man 

Coldness  and  change  disfigure  ;  what  was  red 

A  new  disconsolate  color  overpaints, 

And  ever  with  some  ill  deformity 

The  secret  riddle  and  pure  sense  of  flesh 

Becomes  defeated  and  the  rebel  taste 

Makes  new  revolt  at  it ;  I  pray  take  note  of  me, 

Here  conies  no  new  thing  ;  do  you  not  see  her  face, 

How  it  hath  shut  up  close  like  any  flower, 

With  scents  of  sleep  and  hesitating  sweet 

I'  the  heaviest  petal  of  it  ?     Note  her  eyes, 

They  move  and  alter  ;  and  if  I  touched  her  lips 

(Which  lest  she  wake  I  will  not)  they  would  be 

As  red  as  mine  ;  yea  that  pure  cheek  of  hers 

Turn  redder. 

Qu.  El.          Will  you  speak  to  him  ? 
Bouch.  Fair  lord  — 

K.  Hen.   Sir,  pardon  me,  I  know  she  is  but  dead, 
She  is  not  as  I  am  ;  we  have  sense  and  soul ; 


ROSAMOND.  231 

Who  smites  me  on  the  mouth  or  plucks  by  the  hair, 

I  know  what  feels  it ;  stab  me  with  a  knife, 

I  can  show  blood  ;  and  when  the  eyes  turn  wet, 

There 's  witness  for  me  and  apparent  proof 

I  am  no  less  than  man  ;  though  in  the  test 

I  show  so  abject  and  so  base  a  slave 

As  grooms  may  snarl  at,  and  your  stabled  hound 

Find  place  more  worth  preferment.     For  the  queen, 

See  how  strong  laughter  takes  her  by  the  throat 

And  plucks  her  lips  !  her  teeth  would  bite,  no  doubt, 

But  she  keeps  quiet ;  she  should  live  indeed  ; 

She  hath  mere  motion,  and  such  life  in  her 

Accuses  and  impeaches  the  Lord  God, 

Who  wrought  so  miserably  the  shapes  of  man 

With  such  sad  cunning.     Lo  you,  sir,  she  weeps ; 

Now  see  I  well  how  vile  a  thing  it  is 

To  wear  the  label  and  the  print  of  life 

Being  fashioned  so  unhappily ;  for  we 

Share  no  more  sense  nor  worthier  scope  of  time 

Than  the  live  breath  that  is  in  swine  and  apes 

As  honorable,  now  she  that  made  us  right 

In  the  keen  balance  and   sharp  scale  of  God 

Becomes  as  pasture  and  gross  meat  for  death, 

Whereon  the  common  ravin  of  his  throat 

Makes  rank  invasion.     Time  was,  I  could  not  speak 

But  she  would  praise  or  chide  me  ;  now  I  talk 

All  this  time  out,  mere  baffled  waste,  to  get 

That  word  of  her  I  find  not.     Tell  me,  sweet, 


232  ROSAMOND. 

Have  I  done  wrong  to  thee  ?  spoken  thee  ill  ? 
Nay,  for  scorn  hurts  me,  Rosamond  ;  be  wise, 
As  I  am  patient ;  do  but  bow  your  face,  — 
By  God  she  will  not !     Abide  you  but  awhile 
And  we  shall  hear  her ;  for  she  will  not  fail. 
She  will  just  turn  her  sweet  head  quietly 
And  kiss  me  peradventure ;  say  no  word, 
And  you  shall  see  her;  doubtless  she  will  grow 
Sorry  to  vex  me  ;  see  now,  here  are  two 
She  hath  made  weep,  and  God  would  punish  her 
For  hardness,  ay  though  she  were  thrice  as  fair, 
He  would  not  love  her ;  look,  she  would  fain  wake, 
It  makes  her  mouth  move  and  her  eyelids  rise 
To  feel  so  near  me. —  Ay,  no  wiser  yet  ? 
Then  will  I  leave  you ;  may  be  she  will  weep 
To  have  her  hands  made  empty  of  me  ;  yea, 
Lend  me  your  hand  to  cover  close  her  face, 
That  she  may  sleep  well  till  we  twain  be  gone ; 
Cover  the  mouth  up  ;  come  each  side  of  me. 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :   Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


